oet  Hore  ipiaps; 


SUMMER     FOLK 

(DATCHNIKI) 
MAXIM     GORKI 


Richard    G.  Badger,    Publisher,    Bosto 


n 


LIBRARY 

'INIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


VOLUME    XVI  AUTUMN    1905  NUMBER    III 

^SUMMER-FOLK* 

[DATCHNIKI] 

Scenes  from  Life 

By  Maxim  Gorki 

Translated  from  the  Russian  by  Aline  Delano 

DRAMATIS  PERSON/E 

Serguey  Vassilievitch  Bassoff,  Lawyer,  40. 

Varvara  Michailovna,  his  wife,  27. 

Kaleria,  his  sister,  29. 

Vlass,  brother  of  Bassoff's  wife,  25. 

Piotr  Ivanovitch  Sussloff,  Civil  Engineer,  42. 

Yulia  Fillipovna,  his  wife,  30. 

Kyrill  Akimovitch  Dudakoff,  Physician,  40. 

Olga  Alekseyevna,  his  wife,  35. 

Iakov  Petrovitch  Shalimoff,  Author,  40. 

Pavel  Sergueyevitch  Rumin,  32. 

Marya  Lvovna,  Physician,  37. 

Semion  Semionytch  Dvoetchie  [Colon],  Susslofs  uncle,  55. 

Nikalay  Petrovitch  Zamysloff,  Bassofs  junior  partner,  28. 

Zimin,  a  student,  23. 

Pustobaika  [Talker],  First  Watchman,  50. 

Kropilkin,  Second  Watchman. 

Sasha,  Bassoff' s  Maid-Servant. 

*  Copyright,  1905,  by  Aline  Delano 
(0 


SUMMER-FOLK 


A  woman  with  a  bandaged  cheek. 

Mr.  Seminoff. 

A  lady  in  a  yellow  gown 

A  young  man  in  a  plaid  suit  (  Theatrical 

A  young  lady  in  blue  (  Amateurs 

A  young  lady  in  pink 

A  Cadet 

A  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat 


Scene  :     A  Country  place  near  St.  Petersburg. 

Time  :     The  Present. 

Act      I.  A  Summer  room  in  Bassofli's  country-house. 

Act    II.  A  Field  in  front  of  the  house. 

Act  III.  A  Glade  in  the  Forest. 

Act  IV.  Same  as  Act  II. 


ACT  I 

THE  Bassofs'  Country-house.  A  large  room  which  is  both 
parlor  and  dining-room.  In  the  rear,  to  the  left,  an  open 
door  leading  to  Bassoff's  study,  to  the  right,  a  door  into  his 
wife's  bed-room.  These  rooms  are  separated  by  a  corridor, 
of  which  the  entrance  is  draped  by  a  dark  curtain.  To  the 
right  a  window  and  a  wide  door  leading  to  the  veranda, 
to  the  left  two  windows.  A  large  dining-table  in  the  middle.  A  grand 
piano  opposite  the  door  of  the  study.  Wicker  furniture.  The  sofa  near 
the  entrance  has  a  gray  linen  cover.  Evening.  Bassoff  at  the  desk  in  his 
study  has  a  lamp  with  a  green  shade  before  him.  He  writes  and  hums,  then 
turns  his  head,  listens,  and  peers  into  the  twilight  of  the  larger  room. 
Varvara  comes  out  of  her  room  noiselessly,  strikes  a  match,  holds  it  up, 


MAXIM  GORKI  3 

and  looks  about.  The  match  goes  out.  As  she  moves  in  the  darkness 
toward  the  window,  she  stumbles  against  a  chair. 

Bassoff.     Who's  that? 

Varvara.     I. 

Bas.     Oh! 

Far.     Did  you  take  the  candle? 

Bas.     No. 

Var.     Ring  for  Sasha. 

Bas.     Has  Vlass  come? 

Var.  [near  the  veranda  door].     I  don't  know. 

Bas.  Absurd  house!  Electric  bells  and  chinks  in  the  wall!  —  and  a 
creaking  floor.  —  [Hums.']      Varya,  where  are  you? 

Var.     Here. 

Bas.  [gathering  up  his  papers']  Is  your  room  draughty? 

Var.     It  is. 

Bas.     So  I  thought.     [Sasha  enters.] 

Var.     Bring  a  light,  Sasha. 

Bas.     Sasha,  has  Vlass  Michailovitch  come? 

Sasha.  Not  yet.  [She  goes  out  and  returns  with  a  lamp  which  she 
places  on  the  table  beside  the  easy  chair.  Empties  the  ash-tray  and 
straightens  the  table-cloth  on  the  dining-table.  VARVARA  pulls  down  the 
window-shade,  takes  a  book  from  the  book-case  and  seats  herself  in  the  easy 
chair.] 

Bas.  [good  naturedly].  Vlass  is  getting  unreliable  —  and  lazy. — 
He  has  acted  very  —  absurdly,  of  late. 

Var.     Will  you  have  some  tea  ? 

Bas.     No;  I  am  going  to  the  Susloffs'. 

Var.  Sasha,  go  over  to  Olga  Alekseyevna  and  find  out  if  she  can  come 
and  take  tea  with  me.      [Sasha  goes  out.] 

Bas.  [locking  his  papers  in  the  desk].  There!  That's  done.  [He 
comes  out  of  the  study  and  stretches  himself.]  I  wish  you'd  tell  him  so, 
Varya,  without  hurting  his  feelings. 

Var.     What  do  you  want  me  to  say? 

Bas.  Well!  —  that  he  ought  to  pay  more  attention  to  his  duties. 
Don't  you  think  so? 

Var.     Very  well.     I'll  tell  him.     But  it  seems  to  me  you  ought  not  to 


4  SUMMER-FOLK 

speak  so  of  him  before  Sasha. 

Bas.    [looking   around    the    room~\.     Oh!     That's    all    right.     You 

can't  hide  things  from  servants. How  bleak  it  looks  here !      It  would 

be  well  to  cover  up  these  bare  walls.  —  Hang  some  frames  —  or  pictures  — 
It  looks  forlorn !  Now  then  I'm  off.  Give  me  your  little  paw.  How 
indifferent  you  are  to  me!  You  hardly  say  a  word.  What's  the  reason? 
And  you  look  so  solemn.     Tell  me!     What's  the  matter? 

Var.      I  thought  you  were  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  the  Susloffs'. 

Bas.  Yes.  I  must  be  going.  I  haven't  played  chess  with  him  for 
an  age.  And  I  haven't  kissed  your  little  paw,  for  an  age,  either.  How's 
that?     Strange,  isn't  it? 

Var.  [concealing  a  smile'] .  We  had  better  postpone  talk  about  me 
until  you  are  more  at  leisure.     It's  not  important,  is  it? 

Bas  [reassured].  Of  course  not.  I  only  said  so  because  —  What 
can  be  the  matter  with  you?  You  are  a  charming  woman  —  clever  — 
frank  —  and  so  forth.  If  you  had  any  grievance  against  me,  you  would 
say  so.  —  Why  do  your  eyes  shine?  —  Are  you  not  feeling  well? 

Var.     No,  I  am  well. 

Bas.  Let  me  suggest  that  you  busy  yourself  with  something,  my 
dear  Varya !  You  are  reading  too  much.  All  excesses  are  injurious,  you 
know.     It's  a  fact ! 

Var.  Don't  forget  that  fact  when  you  are  drinking  red  wine  with 
Susloff. 

Bas.  You  are  sarcastic.  But  all  these  spicy,  up-to-date  books  are 
worse  than  wine,  I  believe.  I  am  in  earnest.  There  is  something  narcotic 
in  them.  —  They  are  all  written  by  these  neurotic,  morbid  gentlemen. 
[Yawning.]  You  are  soon  to  behold  a  real  author,  as  the  children  say.  I 
am  interested  to  see  what  he's  like,  now.  No  doubt  he  has  a  high  opinion 
of  himself.  —  These  public  characters  are  consumed  by  ambitions,  generally 
abnormal.  —  Kaleria,  too,  isn't  normal,  though,  strictly  speaking,  she  isn't 
much  of  an  author.  She'll  be  pleased  to  see  Shalimoff.  She  ought  to 
marry  him!  I  mean  it!  She  is  getting  old,  —  yes,  she  is  rather  old, — 
and  she  whines  as  though  she  had  a  chronic  tooth-ache  —  and  she's  no  great 
beauty,  either. 

Var.     What  senseless  talk,  Serguey! 

Bas.     You  think  so  ?     Never  mind.     Nobody  hears  us.  —  I  like  to 


MAXIM  GORKI  5 

chatter  now  and  then.  [A  dry  cough  is  heard  behind  the  drapery.']  Who's 
that? 

Susslof  [Behind  the  drapery]  I. 

Bas.  [goes  to  meet  him].     I  was  just  leaving  for  your  house. 

Sus.  [silently  exchanges  greetings  with  Var.]  Come  along!  I  came 
to  fetch  you. You  haven't  been  in  town  today? 

Bas.     No.     Why? 

Sus  [smiling  with  a  grimace].  They  say  your  junior  partner  won 
2,000  roubles  at  the  Club. 

Bas.     You  don't  say  so ! 

Sus.     Won  it,  —  from  some  drunken  merchant. 

Var.     Just  as  you  usually  put  it. 

Sus.     How  is  that? 

Var.  This  way:  —  he  'won,'  you  say.  Then  you  add  emphatically, 
'  from  some    drunken  fellow.' 

Sus.  [with  a  smirk].     I  didn't  emphasize. 

Bas.  What  of  it?  If  he  had  said  Zamysloff  made  the  merchant 
drunk  and  then  won  from  him,  that  would  be  bad  taste.  Come  along, 
Piotr, Varya,  when  Vlass  comes  —  Oh  !  there  he  is  ! 

Vlass  [enters  with  an  old  portfolio].  You  missed  me,  Patron?  I  am 
glad  to  hear  it!  [Addresses  Sussloff  with  a  mock  warning]  There's  a 
man  just  arrived  who's  looking  for  you !  He  is  going  about  from  house  to 
house  inquiring  loudly  where  you  live.  [He  goes  to  his  sister.]  How  are 
you,  Varya? 

Var.     How  are  you? 

Sus.     The  deuce !     It  must  be  my  uncle. 

Bas.     Then  it  will  not  be  convenient  for  you  to    have  me  ? 

Sus.  Nonsense!  What  do  I  care  for  my  uncle,  whom  I  hardly 
know !     I  have  not  laid  eyes  on  him  for  ten  years. 

Bas  [to  Vlass].     This  way.      [They  go  into  the  study.] 

Sus.  [lighting  a  cigarette].     Won't  you  come,  too? 

Var.     No.     Is  your  uncle  poor? 

Sus.  No.  Rich.  I  suppose  you  think  it's  only  poor  relations  I 
don't  like. 

Var.     I  don't  know. 

Sus.  [coughs  irritably].     Now  let  me  tell  you  that  Zamysloff  of  yours 


6  SUMMER-FOLK 

will  some  day  compromise  Serguey.  Indeed,  he  will!  He's  a  rogue! 
You  don't  believe  me? 

Var.  [quietly].     I  don't  wish  to  talk  to  you  about  him. 

Sits.  All  right.  [After  a  silence.']  And  you  —  I  suppose  you're 
proud  of  your  directness.  Take  care! — The  part  of  a  direct  person  is  a 
difficult  one.  To  play  it  even  passably,  one  must  have  lots  of  backbone, 
audacity,  and  wit.  —  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings. 

Var.     I  don't  care. 

Sus.     You  don't  care  to  argue?     Perhaps  you  really  agree  with  me? 

Var.  [simply]  I  don't  know  how  to  argue.  —  I  don't  know  how  to  dis- 
cuss. 

Sus.  [gloomily].  Pray  don't  resent  it.  It's  hard  to  believe  that  there 
are  persons  who  dare  to  be  true  to  themselves. 

Sasha  [entering].  Olga  Alekseyevna  desired  me  to  say  that  she  is 
coming.     Shall  I  get  the  tea  ready? 

Var.     Yes,  please. 

Sasha.     Nikolai  Petrovitch  is  coming,  too.      [Goes  out.] 

Sus.  [going  to  the  study  door]  Serguey,  are  you  coming  soon? 

Bas.       Yes. 

Zamysloff  [enters].  My  greetings  to  my  patroness!  How  do  you 
do,  Piotr  Ivanovitch. 

Sus.  [coughing].     My  respects  !     Well,  you  are  a  butterfly ! 

Zam.  I  am  light-hearted!  My  purse  is  as  light  as  my  heart  and  my 
head. 

Sus.  [with  irony].  I  will  not  dispute  as  to  the  head  and  heart,  but  as  to 
the  purse  —  they  say  you  won  it  away  from  somebody  at  the  Club. 

Zam  [softly].  You  should  have  said  I  won  it  without  adding  more. 
To  win  away  from  anybody  is  said  of  a  man  who  cheats. 

Var.  We  are  always  hearing  something  sensational  about  you. 
That's  the  fate  of  uncommon  men ! 

Zam.  At  any  rate  when  I  hear  some  scandal  about  myself  I  begin  to 
be  convinced  of  my  own  excellence.  —  Unfortunately  I  won  only  42  roubles. 

Sus.  [coughs,  goes  to  the  left  and  looks  out  of  the  window.] 

Bas  [coming  out].  Is  that  all!  And  I  was  dreaming  of  champagne. 
—  Well,  have  you  anything  to  say?     I  am  in  a  hurry.    .     .    . 

Zam.     Are  you  going  out?     Then  I'll  speak  to  you  later,  there's  no 


MAXIM  GORKI  7 

hurry.  —  Varvara  Michailovna,  I  am  so  sorry  you  were  not  at  the  play. 
Yulia  Fillipovna  acted  splendidly ! 

Var.     I  know ;  she  generally  acts  well. 

Zam.  [with  enthusiasm].  She  has  talent!  Cut  my  head  off  if  she 
hasn't. 

Sits,  [smiling  sarcastically].  And  if  it  were  cut  off?  What  would 
you  be  without  it?  Well!  Let's  go,  Serguey.  Au  revoir,  Varvara  Mich- 
ailovna.    Your  servant.     [He  bows  to  Zamyslof.] 

Bas.  [peeping  into  the  study  where  Vlass  is  sorting  papers].  So!  by 
nine  tomorrow  morning  you'll  have  all  these  papers  copied !  —  can  I  count 
on  it? 

Vlass.  You  may.  And  may  you  have  a  sleepless  night,  honored 
patron ! 

[Sussloff  and  Bassoff  go  out.] 

Zam.     I  am  going,  too.  —  Pray  give  me  your  hand,  my  patroness. 

Var.     Stay  and  have  some  tea. 

Zam.     I  will  come  later  if  you  will  allow  me.      [He  goes  out  briskly. ~\ 

Vlass  [coming  out  of  the  study~\.     Varya,  are  they  to  have  tea  here? 

Var.  Call  Sasha.  [She  places  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.']  Why 
do  you  look  so  tired? 

Vlass  [rubs  his  cheek  against  her  hand].  I  am  tired.  I  was  in  Court 
from  10  until  3.  Then  from  3  on,  I  ran  about  on  errands,  and  had  no  time 
to  dine. 

Var.     You  are  only  a  clerk.     You  should  be  above  that,  Vlass. 

Vlass.  [sheepishly].  One  should  "aim  for  the  top,"  I  know.  —  But 
Varya,  —  since  I  love  examples,  I  will  take  the  example  of  the  chimney- 
sweep on  the  roof.  —  To  be  sure  he  has  climbed  higher  than  any  one,  but  is 
he  higher  than  himself? 

Var.  Don't  be  silly.  Why  don't  you  look  out  for  another  kind  of 
work,  more  useful,  more  important? 

Vlass  [making  believe  he  is  excited].  Madame!  I  take  a  strenuous, 
though  indirect  part  in  the  defence  and  guardianship  of  the  sacred  right  of 
property  —  and  you  call  this  useless  labor !     What  degenerate  ideas ! 

Var.     You  don't  wish  to  talk  seriously? 

[Sasha  enters.] 

Vlass  [to  Sasha].     Highly  honored  lady!     Be  generous,  bring  some 


8  SUMMER-FOLK 

tea  and  also  something  to  eat. 

Sasha.     I'll  bring  it  directly.     Would  you  like  some  croquettes,  too? 

Vlass.     Yes,  croquettes,  or  anything  like  that.     I  wait! 

[Sasha  goes  out.'] 

Vlass  [puts  his  arm  round  his  sister's  waist  and  walks  with  her  up  and 
down].     Well!     How  goes  it? 

Far.  Somehow  I  feel  sad,  dear  Vlass.  You  know,  sometimes,  all  of 
a  sudden  —  without  thinking,  one  feels  as  though  one  were  in  prison. — 
Everything  seems  strange  and  unfriendly  —  useless  —  and  no  one  seems  to 
be  living  in  earnest.  —  You,  for  instance,  —  you  are  joking,  fooling. — 

Vlass  \_assumes  a  comic  pose]. 

Don't  chide  me,  my  friend, 
For  my  often  joking; 
I  wish  to  hide  my  woe 
By  my  merry  joking  — 

My  own  verses !  far  superior  to  Kaleria's !  But  I  refrain.  They  are  5  yds. 
long.  —  My  dear  sister !  You  want  me  to  be  serious?  So  a  one-eyed  man 
wants  everyone  else  to  have  only  one  eye. 

[Sasha  enters  with  the  tea  things  and  bustles  around  the  table.  The 
rattle  of  the  night  watchman  is  heard  outside.] 

Far.     Don't,  Vlass !      Do  be  sensible. 

Flass.  Very  well  [sadly].  [A  pause.]  But  you  are  not  generous, 
sisterkin !  All  day  I  am  mum ;  I  copy  all  sorts  of  petitions  and  complaints 
naturally  I  feel  like  chattering  at  night. 

Far.  Now,  I  feel  more  like  going  somewhere,  where  simple,  whole- 
some people  live,  where  they  talk  differently  and  work  earnestly,  at  some- 
thing that  everyone  needs. You  understand? 

Flass  [thoughtfully].  Yes,  I  understand.  But  you  cannot  escape, 
Varya ! 

Far.  I  may.  —  I  will  go  somewhere.  [A  pause.]  [Sasha  brings 
the  samovar] .     Shalimoff  will  probably  arrive  tomorrow. 

Flass  [yawning].  I  don't  care  for  his  last  things.  —  They  are  dull 
and  uninteresting.     They  lack  power. 

Far.  I  saw  him  once  at  a  party.  —  I  was  a  schoolgirl  then.  —  I  re- 
member as  he  came  into  the  room  he  looked  so  strong,  so  energetic  with 


MAXIM  GORKI  9 

his  unruly  thick  hair,  and  the  frank,  open  face  of  a  man  who  knows  what 
he  loves  and  what  he  hates  —  who  realizes  his  power.  I  looked  at  him 
and  trembled  for  joy  that  such  men  exist.  Yes,  I  was  happy  !  I  remember 
how  energetically  he  shook  his  head;  how  a  dark  strand  of  hair  fell  over  his 
forehead;  and  I  can  still  see  his  inspired  eyes.  That  was  six  or  seven  years 
ago,  no,  eight  years. 

Vlass.     You  dream  like  a  schoolgirl  over  a  new  teacher!      Beware, 
sister!     Authors  are  masters  in  the  art  of  conquest  over  women's  hearts. 

Var.     Don't  say  that,  Vlass,  that's  vulgar. 

Vlass  [warmly].     Don't  be  angry,  Varya. 

Far.  Can't  you  understand  that  I  am  looking  for  him  ...  as 
I  look  for  Spring!  —  My  life  is  hard  to  bear. 

Vlass.  I  understand,  I  understand.  My  life,  too,  is  hard.  —  In  fact 
I  am  ashamed  to  live.  —  I  can't  see  what's  coming. 

Var.     Yes,  yes,  Vlass!     But  why  do  you ? 

Vlass.  Act  like  a  clown  ?  I  don't  like  to  have  any  one  see  that  I  feel 
unhappy. 

Kaleria  [entering].  What  a  beautiful  night.  And  there  you  are, — 
and  what's  more  there's  an  odor  of  charcoal  fumes  here. 

Vlass  [awakening].     Good  evening,  Miss  'Abstraction.' 

Kal.  The  forest  is  so  silent,  so  plunged  in  thought.  Oh,  it's  beauti- 
ful !  The  moon  is  soft,  the  shadows  deep  and  warm.  The  day  is  never 
as  fine  as  the  night. 

Vlass  [imitating  her].  Yes,  —  old  ladies  are  always  jollier  than 
young  girls,  —  and  cray-fish  fly  faster  than  swallows. 

Kal.  [seating  herself  at  the  table].  You  don't  understand  things. 
Pour  me  out  some  tea,  Varya.     Has  any  one  called  here? 

Vlass  [still  jestingly].  No  one.  —  'To  be  or  not  to  be.'  —  Since 
no  one  is! 

Kal.  Please  let  me  alone.  [Vlass  bows  silently  and  withdraws  to 
the  study,  sorting  papers  on  the  table.  The  watchman's  rattle  and  soft 
whistle  are  heard  from  the  window.] 

Var.     Did  Yulia  Fillipovna  come  to  see  you  ? 

Kal.     Me?     Yes,  yes,  she  came  to  talk  over  the  theatricals. 

Var.     Were  you  in  the  woods? 

Kal.     Yes,  I  met  Rumin.  —  He  talked  a  great  deal  about  you. 


io  SUMMER-FOLK 

Far.     What  did  he  say? 

Kal.     You  know.  —  [A  pause,  Vlass  hums  softly.'] 

Far.  [sighing].     That's  too  bad! 

Kal.     For  him? 

Far.     He  told  me  once  that  to  love  a  woman  is  man's  tragic  duty. 

Kal.     You  thought  differently  of  him  once. 

Far.     You  think  then  that  it  is  my  fault.     Is  that  it? 

Kal.     Oh,  no,  Varya,  no  indeed ! 

Far.  I  tried  at  first  to  divert  his  mind.  —  And  I  showed  him  a  great 
deal  of  attention.  —  Then  I  saw  what  all  that  leads  to. — And  then,  he 
went  off. 

Kal.     Did  you  have  a  final  talk? 

Far.     No,  no!  not  a  word.      [A  pause.] 

Kal.  His  love  must  be  lukewarm  and  lack  passion  —  all  words.  — 
It  lacks  joy!    And  a  joyless  love  offends  a  woman.     Isn't  he  a  humpback? 

Far  [surprised] .  I  never  noticed  it.  Do  you  think  so  ?  Aren't  you 
mistaken ! 

Kal.  There  is  something  inharmonious  in  his  soul  —  and  when  I  see 
that  in  a  man,  I  begin  to  think  that  he  is  a  physical  monstrosity. 

Flass  [coming  out  of  the  study  in  a  sad  mood,  shuffling  his  papers]. 
Taking  into  consideration  the  number  of  these  briefs,  I  humbly  represent 
to  you,  my  patroness,  that  with  the  best  intentions,  it  will  be  impossible  for 
me,  in  accordance  with  the  wish  of  the  patron,  to  complete  the  unpleasant 
duty  he  has  assigned  me ! 

Far.     I  will  help  you  later.     Drink  your  tea ! 

Flass.  Sister !  Indeed  you  are  a  sister !  Be  proud  of  this !  Miss 
'Abstraction,'  learn  to  love  your  neighbor  as  long  as  I  and  my  sister  are 
alive. 

Kal.     Let  me  tell  you,  you  are  a  humpback,  too. 

Flass.     From  what  point  of  view? 

Kal.    Your  soul  is  humpbacked. 

Flass.     I  hope  it  does  not  spoil  my  looks. 

Kal.  Rudeness  is  as  much  of  a  defect  as  a  hump.  —  Foolish  men! 
how  much  like  humpbacks  they  are ! 

Flass  [imitating  her].  Those  who  are  lame  according  to  your  aph- 
orisms. 


MAXIM  GORKI  u 

Kal.  Vulgar  men  are  to  me  as  though  they  were  marked  with  small- 
pox, and  they  are  generally  blonde  men. 

Vlass.  All  dark  men  marry  early;  while  the  metaphysicians  are  blind 
and  deaf.  —  It's  a  pity  they  are  not  dumb. 

Kal.  That's  not  even  witty !  Most  likely  you  are  not  familiar  with 
metaphysics. 

Vlass.  Yes,  I  know;  tobacco  and  metaphysics  are  delectable  things 
for  amateurs.  I  don't  smoke,  so  I  am  ignorant  as  to  tobacco,  but  I  have 
read  the  works  of  metaphysicians,  and  I  can  say  that  they  produce  nausea 
and  vertigo ! 

Kal.     Weak  brains  grow  dizzy  even  on  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

Var.     You  will  end  by  quarreling. 

Vlass.     I  will  eat;  that's  more  to  the  point. 

Kal.  And  I  will  play  on  the  piano.  —  That's  better.  How  hot  it  is 
here,  Varya ! 

Var.    I  will  open  the  door  of  the  veranda.  —  Olga  is  coming. 

[A  pause.  Vlass  sips  his  tea.  Kaleria  seats  herself  at  the  piano. 
The  soft  whistle  of  the  watchman  is  heard.  Kaleria  wanders  softly  over 
the  keyboard  of  the  middle  register.  Olga  Alekseyevna  enters,  pulling 
the  drapery  aside  quickly,  as  though  she  were  a  large  frightened  bird.  She 
throws  of  her  grey  shawl.'] 

Olga.  Here  I  am !  —  I  had  difficulty  in  getting  away !  [She  kisses 
Varvara.]  Good  evening,  Kaleria  Vassilievna.  Please  go  on  playing;  no 
need  to  shake  hands.     How  are  you,  Vlass? 

Vlass.     Good-evening,  mutterchin ! 

Var.  Sit  down,  sit  down!  Will  you  have  some  tea?  Why  didn't 
you  come  before? 

Olga  [nervously].  Wait  a  moment.  I  was  afraid.  I  thought 
some  one  was  hidden  in  the  forest,  —  some  tramp.  —  The  watchmen  keep 
whistling  and  it's  such  a  shrill,  doleful  whistle.     Why  do  they  whistle  so? 

Vlass.     Yes,  that's  very  alarming !     Aren't  they  hooting  at  us  ? 

Olga.  I  wanted  to  run  up  here  before,  but  Nadya  was  naughty. 
Perhaps  she  wasn't  feeling  well.  You  know,  Volka  is  ill,  —  feverish.  — 
Then  I  had  to  give  Sonya  a  bath,  and  Meesha  ran  off  into  the  woods  after 
dinner  and  has  just  come  back,  ragged,  dirty,  and  hungry,  of  course.  Then 
my  husband  returned  from  the  city  out  of  sorts.     Quite  mum  and  scowling 


12  SUMMER-FOLK 

I  was  in  a  whirl.  And  the  new  maid  is  impossible !  She  plunged  the  glass 
milk  jars  into  boiling  water  and  they  cracked,  of  course. 

Var.  [smiling'] .     Why,  my  poor  dear !     You  are  tired. 

Vlass.  Oh,  Martha,  Martha!  You  care  for  much  —  that's  why 
everything  comes  out  overdone  or  underdone  !     What  wise  words  !  — 

Kal.     But  inelegant  —  'underdone,'  'overdone'!      Fie! 

Vlass.  Pray  pardon  me.  I  am  not  the  author  of  the  Russian  lan- 
guage. 

01  ga  [somewhat  offended].  Of  course  you  find  all  this  ridiculous. 
It  does  not  entertain  you?  I  understand.  Well,  what  of  that?  We  all 
speak  of  what  interests  us  most.  When  I  think  of  the  children,  it's  as 
though  I  heard  a  bell  within  me.  Yes,  it's  so  difficult  to  manage  children, 
Vary  a ! 

Var.     Forgive  me,  dear,  but  I  think  you  exaggerate. 

Olga  [excitedly].  No,  no,  don't  say  that.  You  can't  judge.  You 
don't  know  what  an  oppressive  feeling  it  is,  —  this  responsibility  for  chil- 
dren !  They  will  ask  me  some  day  how  they  ought  to  live !  And  then 
what  am  I  to  say  to  them  ? 

Vlass.  But  why  do  you  borrow  trouble  ?  They  may  not  ask.  —  They 
may  find  out  themselves  how  they'll  have  to  live. 

Olga.  That's  all  you  know !  They  are  asking  already !  Terrible 
questions  such  as  no  one  can  answer !  What  a  hardship,  what  a  pity  it  is  to 
be  a  woman ! 

Vlass  [in  an  undertone  but  with  much  earnest  feeling].  One  ought  to 
be  human.      [He  goes  into  the  study,  sits  at  a  table  and  writes.] 

Var.  Vlass,  stop !  [She  rises  and  slowly  approaches  the  door  lead- 
ing out  of  the  veranda.] 

Kal.  [romantically].  The  smile  of  twilight  puts  out  the  starlight. 
[She  rises  also  from  the  piano  and  stands  in  the  doorway  beside  Varvara.] 

Olga.  I  have  made  you  all  gloomy.  —  Like  a  night-owl !  Oh,  Lord ! 
—  Well!  I'll  say  no  more.  Why  did  you  go  away,  Varya?  Come  here, 
or  I  will  think  that  you  can't  bear  to  be  with  me. 

Var.     Nonsense,  Olga !      I  am  simply  touched. 

Olga.  Don't,  dear !  I  feel  disgusted  with  myself,  —  it's  as  though 
my  soul  were  shriveled  like  a  little  dog's.  You  know  there  are  lap-dogs 
like  that.     They  are  vicious,  love  no  one  and  always  want  to  snap  at  some 


MAXIM  GORKI  13 

one  on  the  sly. 

Kal.     The  sun  rises  and  sets,  but  twilight  reigns  in  the  hearts  of  men. 

Olga.     What's  that? 

Kal.     Nothing.      I  am  talking  to  myself. 

Vlass  [in  the  study  dolefully  humming  from  the  litany  for  the  dead~\. 
4  Family  happiness  !      Family  happiness  ! ' 

Far.     Stop,  Vlass,  I  beg  of  you ! 

Vlass.     All  right,  I  am  mum. 

Olga.      It's  my  fault. 

Kal.  See  all  the  people  coming  out  of  the  forest.  What  a  pretty 
sight !      But  how  comically  Pavel  Sergueyevitch  is  swinging  his  arms ! 

Far.     Who  is  with  him? 

Kal.     Marya  Lvovna,  Yulia  Fillipovna,  Sonya,  Zimin,  and  Zamysloff. 

Olga  [wraps  herself  in  her  shawl].  I  am  not  properly  dressed.  That 
elegant  Madame  Susloff  will  make  fun  of  me.     I  can't  bear  her ! 

Far.     Vlass,  call  Sasha. 

Flass.  My  patroness,  you  are  taking  me  away  from  the  straight  path 
of  duty.      Beware ! 

Olga.  The  'elegant'  lady  neglects  her  children;  but  strange  to  say, 
they  are  always  well. 

Marya  [entering  by  the  door  of  the  veranda].  Your  husband  told 
me  you  were  not  feeling  well.     Is  that  so?     What  is  the  matter? 

Far.      I  am  glad  you  called,  but  I  am  quite  well. 

Mar.  You  look  nervous.  [To  Olga].  You  here  also?  It's  a 
long  time  since  I  saw  you. 

Olga.  You  say  it  as  though  you  were  pleased  to  see  me,  and  I  am 
always  complaining. 

Mar.     Perhaps  I  like  complaints.     How  are  the  children? 

Yulia  [entering  from  the  veranda].  Just  see  all  the  guests  I  bring 
you!  Never  mind,  we  will  not  stay  long!  How  are  you,  Olga  Aleksey- 
evna !  Why  don't  you  gentlemen  come  in?  Varvara  Michailovna,  Pavel 
Sergueyevitch,  and  Zamysloff  are  out  there.     Shall  I  call  them  in  ? 

Far.     Certainly. 

[The  following  speeches  are  spoken  quickly.] 

Yulia.     Come,  Kaleria. 

Marya  [to  Vlass].     Why,  have  you  lost  flesh? 


i4  SUMMER-FOLK 

Flass.     I  don't  know. 

Sasha  [entering].     Shall  I  fill  the  samovar? 

Far.     Yes,  do,  and  be  quick  about  it. 

Mary  a  [to  Vlass].     Why  are  you  making  faces? 

Olga.     He  always  does. 

Vlass.     That's  my  specialty  ! 

Mary  a.  Trying  hard  to  be  witty.  Yes?  And  without  success? 
My  dear  Varvara,  your  Pavel  Sergueyevitch  has  nervous  prostration. 

Far.     Why  do  you  call  him  mine? 

[Enter  Rumin  followed  by  Yulia  and  Kaleria.  Vlass  with  a 
scowl  enters  the  study  and  shuts  the  door.  Olga  takes  Marya  aside  and 
whispers  to  her,  pointing  to  her  heart.] 

Rumin.     You  will  forgive  our  late  intrusion? 

Far.     I  am  always  pleased  to  see  guests. 

Yulia.  That's  the  principal  charm  of  country  life.  But  if  you  had 
heard  their  disputes !     He  and  Marya  Lvovna. 

Rumin.     I  cannot  speak  indifferently  of  such  important  matters,  —  of 

what  demands  an  explanation [Sasha  brings  the  samovar. 

Varvara  at  the  table  gives  her  directions  and  prepares  the  tea-cups. 
Rumin  at  the  piano  keeps  his  eyes  on  her.] 

Yulia.  You  are  too  nervous,  and  that's  why  your  arguments  fail  to 
convince.  [To  Varvara]  Your  husband  and  mine  are  together  armed 
with  weapons  of  suicide;  they  are  drinking  cognac,  and  I  prophesy  that  they 
will  drink  too  much.  My  husband's  uncle  has  arrived  unexpectedly,  — 
he  is  a  beef-dealer  or  butter-merchant,  —  some  kind  of  a  merchant.  He  is 
noisy  and  jolly,  with  grey  hair  and  a  stub-nose.  He  is  quite  entertaining! 
But  where  is  Zamysloff  ?     My  '  reasonable  '  knight  ? 

Zam.  [from  the  veranda].  'I  am  here,  Inezelia,  under  your  win- 
dow!'* 

Yulia.     Come  in  here.     What  have  you  been  talking  about? 

Zam.  [entering].  I  have  been  demoralizing  the  young  generation. 
,  .  .  .  Sonia  and  Zimin  were  trying  to  convince  me  that  man  has  life 
given  him  for  the  purpose  of  solving  various  social,  moral  and  other  prob- 
lems, while  I  tried  to  convince  them  that  life  is  an  art.     You  understand,  an 

*  The  first  verse  of  a  Spanish  ballad  by  Pushkin. 


MAXIM  GORKI  15 

art  to  look  at  everything  with  your  own  eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears. 

Yulia.     That's  all  bosh! 

Zam.  I  have  just  invented  it!  But  I  feel  this  will  be  my  firm  belief. 
Life  is  the  art  of  finding  beauty  and  joy  everywhere,  even  in  eating  and 
drinking.      .     .     .     They  dispute  like  vandals. 

Yulia.     Kaleria,  stop  your  chatter. 

Zam.  I  know  you  are  a  lover  of  beauty,  Kaleria  Vassilievna,  —  Why 
don't  you  love  me?     That's  a  glaring  contradiction. 

Kal.  [smiling].     You  are  so  noisy,  so  loud. 

Zam.     Hm  !     But  that's  not  to  the  point.     I  and  this  fine  lady    .    .    . 

Yulia.     Stop  it!     We  came     .... 

Zam.  [bowing].     To  you  ! 

Yulia.     To  ask 

Zam  {bowing  lower].     You! 

Yulia.  I  can't  go  on !  Let's  go  into  your  charming  little  room.  .  .  . 
I  am  so  fond  of  it. 

Zam.     Yes !       Everything  hinders  us  here. 

Kal.  [laughing].     Yes,  come! 

[They  go  towards  the  corridor.] 

Yulia.  Wait  a  moment!  Fancy,  my  husband's  uncle's  name  is 
Colon! 

Zam.  [makes  two  dots  with  his  fingers  in  the  air].  Colon!  You 
understand. 

[They  disappear  behind  the  drapery,  laughing.] 

Olga.  She  is  always  so  jolly,  and  yet,  I  know  that  her  life  with  her 
husband  is  not  always  pleasant. 

Far.     I  don't  think  that  concerns  us,  Olga. 

Olga.     I  haven't  said  anything  improper,  have  I  ? 

Rumin.     Family  tragedies  are  common  now-a-days. 

Sony  a  [looking  in  at  the  door].  Motherkin,  I  am  going  to  take  a 
walk. 

Mary  a.     Again  ? 

Sonya.  Again!  There  are  so  many  women  here,  and  that's  always 
a  bore. 

Mary  a  [jestingly].  Be  careful  what  you  say;  your  mother  is  also  a 
woman. 


16  SUMMER-FOLK 

Sony  a  [running  towards  her~\.  Is  that  so,  motherkin?  How  long 
since? 

Olga.     What  is  she  chattering  about? 

Var.     She  hasn't  even  stopped  to  say  good  evening. 

Mary  a.     Soynka  !     You  are  improper ! 

Sony  a  [to  Varvara].  We  saw  each  other  today.  But  I'll  kiss  you 
once  more  with  delight.  ...  I  am  kind  and  generous  when  it  suits  me 
.    .    .    or  at  least  when  I  can  be  so  without  an  effort. 

Mary  a.     Sonya !  Stop  fooling  and  run  away. 

Sonya.  See  what  a  mother  I  have !  She  called  herself  a  woman  just 
now.  It  is  eighteen  years  since  I  made  her  acquaintance  and  I  hear  this 
acknowledgment  for  the  first  time  !      Remarkable  ! 

Zimin  [putting  his  head  beyond  the  draperies~\.  Are  you  coming  or 
not? 

Sonya.     Allow  me  to  introduce  my  slave. 

Var.     Why  don't  you  come  in  ? 

Sonya.     He  is  impossible  in  good  society. 

Zimin.  She  tore  out  the  sleeve  of  my  smoking-jacket,  —  that's  what's 
the  matter! 

Sonya.  Is  that  all?  He  is  not  satisfied  with  that,  but  wants  more! 
Motherkin  I  will  call  for  you,  will  that  be  all  right?  I  am  going  to  hear 
how  Max  will  talk  to  me  of  love  eternal. 

Zimin.     Not  much ! 

Sonya.     We'll  see,  young  man.     Au  revoir.     Is  the  moon  up? 

Zimin.  I  am  not  a  young  man  —  in  Sparta.  Now,  look  here,  Sonya, 
why  do  you  jostle  a  man  who 

Sonya.     You  are  not  a  man  yet.     Go  on,  Sparta ! 

[Their  voices  and  laughter  are  heard  for  some  time  near  the  house. ,] 

Rumin.     You  have  a  fine  girl,  Marya  Lvovna. 

Olga.     I  was  like  that  at  her  age. 

Var.  It's  delightful  to  see  how  you  treat  each  other.  Delightful. 
[  To  all.~\      Please  be  seated  and  drink  your  tea ! 

Marya.     Yes,  we  are  friends. 

Olga.     Friends!     How  did  you  do  it? 

Marya.     What? 

Olga.     Win  your  child's  friendship. 


MAXIM  GORKI  17 

Marya.  Very  simply.  We  should  be  sincere  with  our  children,  not 
hide  the  truth  from  them,  or  deceive  them. 

Rumin  [with  a  smile].  This  is  somewhat  risky,  you  know.  Truth  is 
cold  and  stern,  and  the  pernicious  poison  of  skepticism  is  ever  concealed 
therein.  You  may  thus  poison  a  child's  mind  at  once,  revealing  to  it  the 
terrible  face  of  truth. 

Marya.  And  you  prefer  to  poison  it  gradually?  So  as  not  to  notice 
yourself  how  you  will  distort  it? 

Rumin  [excitedly  and  nervously].  No,  no,  I  never  said  so.  I  am 
only  opposing  those  unwise  and  unnecessary  revelations,  those  attempts  to 
strip  life  of  the  beautiful  garb  of  poetry  which  conceals  its  rude  and  fre- 
quently hideous  aspects.  We  should  embellish  life!  We  should  prepare 
new  garments  for  it  before  discarding  the  old  ones ! 

Marya.     What  are  you  talking  about?     I  don't  understand. 

Rumin.  I  am  speaking  of  man's  right  to  covet  deception.  You  speak 
of  life  often  enough.  Life!  But  what  is  life?  When  you  speak  the 
word,  it  rises  before  me  like  a  giant  monster,  constantly  calling  for  human 
victims.  It  devours  the  brain  and  force  of  man  daily,  greedily  drinks  his 
blood.  [Varvara  listens  attentively  to  Rumin's  words,  and  an  ex- 
pression of  wonder  gradually  steals  over  her  face.  She  makes  a  motion 
as  though  to  stop  Rumin.]  Why  is  it  thus?  I  see  no  reason  in  it,  but  I 
know  that  the  longer  a  man  lives  the  more  filth,  vulgarity,  vileness,  and 
roughness  he  sees  .  .  .  the  more  he  longs  for  beauty,  brightness,  and 
purity!  .  .  .  He  can't  do  away  with  the  contradictions  of  life,  can't  ban- 
ish all  its  evil  and  filth !  Don't,  then,  take  from  him  the  right  to  see  what 
kills  the  soul !  Grant  him  the  right  to  turn  aside  from  the  facts  that  offend 
him !  A  man  seeks  rest  and  oblivion,  peace !  [He  meets  the  eyes  of 
Varvara,  trembles  and  breaks  off.] 

Marya  [quietly].  Your  ideal  man  has  become  a  bankrupt?  I  am 
very  sorry.  Only  in  this  way  do  you  claim  for  him  the  right  to  rest  peace- 
fully.    I  am  sure  you  don't  flatter  him. 

Rumin  [to  Varvara].  Excuse  me  for  talking  so  loud.  ...  I 
see,  you  oppose  this. 

Far.     If  I  do,  it  isn't  because  you  are  nervous. 

Rumin.     What,  then,  is  your  reason? 

Far.  [slowly  and  calmly] .     I  remember  two  years  ago,  you  spoke  dif- 


18  SUMMER-FOLK 

ferently,  but  with  as  much  fervor  and  conviction. 

Rumin  [agitated] .    A  man  grows,  develops,  as  well  as  his  thoughts. 

Marya.     This  tiny,  dark  thought  flutters  like  a  frightened  bat. 

Rumin  [still  agitated].  It  rises  in  a  spiral,  but  still  it  rises  higher. 
You  suspect  me  of  insincerity,  Marya  Lvovna? 

Marya.  I?  No;  I  see  you  are  sincere.  You  are  excited,  and  al- 
though hysterics  fail  to  convince  me  —  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand.  It  is  as 
though  something  had  frightened  you    .     .     .    you  would  like  to  hide  from 

life But  I  know  you  are  not  the  only  one  who  does.     There  are 

many  such  frightened  people. 

Rumin.  Yes,  there  are  hosts  of  them,  because  men  feel  more  and 
more  keenly  that  life  is  cruel.  Everything  in  it  is  strictly  foreordained  .  .  . 
only  man's  being  is  accidental,  senseless,  and  aimless. 

Marya  [calmly].  Then  you  should  try  all  the  more  to  make  this 
accident  a  fact  of  social  necessity;.  —  then  your  life  would  not  be  senseless. 

Olga.  Heavens !  When  people  say  anything  severe  and  condemn- 
ing, I  shrivel  up,  as  though  I  were  condemned.  How  little  kindness  there 
is  in  life.  Well,  I  must  go  home !  It's  so  cosy  here,  Varya,  .  .  and  then 
one  hears  something  interesting,  and  the  better  part  of  the  soul  seems  to 
respond.     .     .     .     It's  getting  late,  too,  and  it's  time  to  go. 

Far.  Don't  go  yet,  my  dear.  Why  are  you  in  such  haste,  all  at 
once?     They'll  send  for  you  if  they  need  you. 

Olga.  Yes,  that's  so.  Well,  I'll  stay  awhile.  [She  goes  and  sits 
down  on  the  sofa  and  curls  herself  up  like  a  ball.  Rumin  nervously  taps 
his  fingers  on  the  panes  of  the  glass  door.] 

Far.  [pensively].  We  live  strange  lives!  We  talk  and  talk,  and 
there  it  ends.  .  .  .  We  have  many  opinions,  ...  we  accept  and  reject 
them  with  unwholesome  speed.  .  .  .  But  when  it  comes  to  wishes,  — 
defined  and  strong,  —  we  don't  have  them  at  all. 

Rumin.     Is  that  meant  for  me? 

Far.     I  include  all.     We  live  an  ugly,  dull  and  insincere  life. 

Yulia  [rushing  in] .     Help  me,  gentlemen  ! 

Kal.     Really,  that's  unnecessary! 

Yulia.  She  has  written  a  new  poem  and  has  promised  to  read  it  at 
our  soiree  for  the  benefit  of  the  children's  colony.  ...  I  request  that  it 
shall  be  read  here,  now.     Gentlemen  !  ask  her ! 


MAXIM  GORKI  19 

Rumin.     Please  read  it !     I  love  your  caressing  verses. 

Marya.  Yes,  I  should  love  to  hear  it.  We  grow  rude  in  discussions. 
Do  read  it,  my  dear. 

Var.     Is  it  something  new,  Kaleria? 

Kal.     Yes,  but  it's  poetry  in  prose  and  rather  uninteresting. 

Yulia.  Do  read  it,  sweetheart.  It's  so  little  trouble  to  you!  Do! 
[She  drags  her  off .] 

Marya.     But  where  is  Vlass? 

Var.     He  is  in  the  study.     He  has  a  great  deal  to  do. 

Marya.  I  was  somewhat  curt  with  him.  Really  it's  too  bad  to  see 
him  making  a  clown  of  himself. 

Var.  Yes.  But  you  should  be  a  little  more  lenient  with  him.  He 
is  a  dear  man,  much  advised,  but  never  petted. 

Marya  [smiling] .  Like  the  rest  of  us.  .  .  .  That's  why  we  are  all 
rude  and  rough. 

Var.     He  lived  with  his  father,  a  tippler,  who  abused  him. 

Marya.  I'll  go  to  him.  [She  goes  to  the  door  of  the  study,  raps 
and  enters.] 

Rumin  [to  Varvara].  You  are  becoming  more  and  more  intimate 
with  Marya  Lvovna,  isn't  that  so? 

Var.     I  like  her. 

Olga  [in  an  undertone].     How  severely  she  judges  everything! 

Rumin.  Marya  Lvovna  possesses  in  a  high  degree  the  severity  of  the 
faithful     .     .     .     a  blind  and  cold  severity.     How  can  this  please? 

Dudakof  [enters  from  the  corridor].  My  greetings  to  you.  You 
here,  Olga?     Coming  home  soon? 

Olga.     I  am  ready.    Have  you  been  walking? 

Var.     Would  you  like  a  glass  of  tea,  Kyrill  Akimovitch? 

Dud.  Tea?  No.  I  don't  drink  it  at  night.  ...  I  should 
like  to  see  you,  Pavel  Sergueyevitch.  Can  I  see  you  tomorrow  at  your 
house  ? 

Rumin.     Certainly. 

Dud.     It's  in  regard  to  the  colony  of  the  minor  criminals. 
They  are  again  in  mischief     .      .     .     devil  take  them ! 

Rumin.  They  are  abused,  I  know,  and  yesterday  the  papers  accused 
us     .     .     .     you  and  me. 


20  SUMMER-FOLK 

Dud.  Yes;  —  in  general,  —  there  is  no  time  to  look  into  everything. 
Everybody  has  his  own  affairs  to  manage,  ....  and  they  can't  do  it. 
Why?  I  am  tired.  I  walked  out  into  the  woods.  It  did  me  good.  My 
nerves  are  on  edge. 

Var.     You  look  careworn. 

Dud.  Very  likely.  This  donkey  of  a  mayor  reprimands  me.  He 
says:  'You  don't  economize  enough!  The  patients  eat  too  much  and  use 
too  much  quinine.'  The  idiot!  In  the  first  place,  that's  none  of  his  busi- 
ness  He  ought  to  drain  the  streets  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city, 

then  I  wouldn't  touch  his  quinine.  I  don't  use  it  myself?  Do  I?  I 
despise  it    ...    .    and  his  insolence  as  well. 

Olga.  Is  it  worth  while  to  get  vexed  at  such  trifles?  You  should 
have  been  used  to  them,  long  ago. 

Dud.  But  if  all  life  is  made  of  trifles?  And  what  do  you  mean  when 
you  say  'used  to  them'?  Used  to  what?  To  have  every  idiot  stick  his 
nose  into  your  business  and  interfere  with  your  life?  Yes,  I  am  getting 
used  to  that.  My  reason  tells  me  I  must  economize  ....  all  right ! 
I'll  do  so !  It's  bad  for  the  business,  but  I'll  economize.  I  have  no  other 
practice  and  can't  give  up  the  devilish  place. 

Olga  [reprovingly].  On  account  of  your  family?  Yes?  This  is 
not  the  first  time  I  hear  this  from  you,  and  you  could  have  spared  me  here 
—  you  rough  and  tactless  man !  [She  throws  her  shawl  over  her  head  and 
quickly  goes  into  Varvara's  room.] 

Var.     Olga  !     What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Olga  [almost  sobbing].  Let  me  be,  let  me  be  !  ...  I  heard  what 
he  said [Both  disappear  in  Varvara's  room.] 

Dud.  There !  I  had  no  idea,  Pavel  Sergueyvitch,  forgive  me, 
please.  This  is  quite  unexpected.  I  am  so  upset.  [He  turns  quickly  and 
collides  with  Kaleria  and  Yulia  in  the  doorway.] 

Yulia.  The  Doctor  has  almost  taken  us  off  our  feet.  What's  the 
matter  with  him? 

Rumin.    Nerves.    .    .    .     [Varvara  enters.]    Has  Olga  Alekseyevna 


gone? 


Var.     Yes,  she's  gone. 

Yulia.     I   distrust  this  doctor.     He  is  such  a  sickly-looking  person 

.     .     stammers     ....     and  is  so  absent-minded  that  he  tucks  the 


MAXIM  GORKI  21 

teaspoons  into  his  spectacle  case  and  stirs  his  tea  with  his  surgeon's  hammer. 
.  .  .  .  He  may  make  mistakes  in  his  prescriptions  and  give  some  inju- 
rious drug. 

Rumin.     I  believe  he  will  end  in  suicide. 

Var.     You  say  it  so  calmly. 

Rumin.     Suicides  among  doctors  are  frequent. 

Var.     Words  agitate  you  more  than  men  do.     Don't  you  think  so? 

Rumin  [shuddering].  Oh,  Varvara !  [Kaleria  seats  herself  at  the 
piano,  Zamysloff  is  beside  her.] 

Zam.     Are  you  comfortable? 

Kal.     Yes,  thank  you. 

Zam.     Attention,  gentlemen ! 

[Marya  and  Vlass  enter;  they  are  both  animated.'] 

Vlass.     Is  the  poetry  to  be  read  here  ? 

Kal  [with  temper] .     If  you  wish  to  hear  it  you  must  stop  talking. 

Vlass.     Let  all  life  cease. 

Marya.     Silence !     Silence ! 

Kal.  I  am  very  glad.  This  is  poetry  in  prose.  Music  will  be  set 
to  it  in  time. 

Yulia.  Melo-declamation !  How  fine !  I  love  it !  I  love  every- 
thing original.     Automobiles,  colored  postal  cards  please  me  like  a  child. 

Vlass  [imitating  her].     Earthquakes,  gramophones,  influenza. 

Kal.  [in  a  loud,  shrill  voice].    Will  you  allow  me  to  read? 

[All  are  seated.     Kaleria  softly  touches  the  piano.] 

It's  called  '  Edelweiss.' 

The  ice  and  snow  with  their  eternal  robe  cover  the  Alpine  summits  and 
over  them  cold  silence  reigns  —  the  wise  silence  of  the  haughty  summits. 

Boundless  above  them  is  the  desert  of  skies  and  the  myriad  eyes  of  the 
planets  look  sadly  down  upon  the  snow-bound  heights. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hills,  yonder,  on  the  narrow  valleys  of  the  earth, 
life  grows  and  struggles,  while  the  sad  lord  of  the  plains  —  man  —  suffers. 

In  the  dark  caves  of  the  earth  groans  and  laughter,  cries  of  rage  and 
whispers  of  love  unite  in  one  sad  chord.  But  the  stillness  of  the  summits 
and  the  gaze  of  the  passionless  stars  disturb  not  the  deep  sighs  of  men. 

Ice  and  snow  with  their  unchangeable  robe  eternally  cover  the  sum- 
mits of  the  Alps,  and  cold  silence,  —  the  wise  silence  of  the  haughty  heights 


22  SUMMER-FOLK 

reigns  above  them. 

But  on  the  border  line  of  the  ice,  in  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  silence, 
grows  the  sad  mountain  flower  —  the  Edelweiss  —  as  though  to  tell  some  one 
of  the  sorrows  of  earth  and  of  the  sufferings  of  weary  men. 

Above  it,  in  the  endless  space  of  heaven,  the  proud  sun  moves  silently, 
the  dumb  moon  sheds  a  sad  light  and  the  mute  stars  glimmer  and  shine. 

And  the  icy  robe  of  stillness  descending  from  above,  surrounds  the 
lonely  flower  —  the  Edelweiss. 

[A  -pause.  All  remain  silent  and  wrapt  in  thought.  The  watch- 
man's whistle  is  heard  in  the  distance.  With  wide  open  eyes,  Kaleria 
looks  before  her.~\ 

Yulia  [in  an  undertone].     How  beautiful!     So  sad  —  so  pure!  — 

Zam.  I  say,  when  you  read  this,  you  ought  to  wear  a  loose  white 
gown,  as  fluffy  as  the  Edelweiss,  you  understand.  That  would  be  intensely 
beautiful !  charming ! 

Vlass  [approaching  the  piano].  I  like  it,  too!  [Laughs  bashfully.] 
I  do  like  it !     It's  fine  !  —  It's  like  an  iced  cranberry  drink  on  a  hot  day. 

Kal.     Go  away. 

Vlass.     Don't  be  angry,  —  I  am  sincere. 

Sasha.     Mr.  Shalimoff  has  arrived. 

[General  commotion.  Varvara  goes  towards  the  door  and  pauses 
as  she  sees  Shalimoff,  who  enters.'] 

Shal.     Have  I  the  pleasure  of  seeing —  ? 

Far.  [hesitating].     Pray  —  walk  in.  —  Serguey  will  return  presently. 

ACT  II 

A  meadow  in  front  of  the  Bassoffs'  veranda,  thickly  encircled  with 
pines,  firs,  and  birches,  hi  front,  on  the  left,  under  some  pines,  a  round 
table  and  three  chairs.  In  the  rear  the  low  veranda  of  the  house  with  an 
awning.  Opposite,  a  wide  settee,  fitted  in  between  the  trunks  of  a  group  of 
trees.  Beyond,  the  road.  Still  more  to  the  rear,  on  the  right,  a  small, 
open,  shell-shaped  stage.  On  the  left,  a  road  leading  to  the  Sussloffs' 
country-house.  A  few  seats  face  the  stage.  Evening.  Sunset.  Kaleria 
is  playing  on  the  piano  at  the  Bassoffs'.  Pustobaika,  the  watchman, 
moves  about  in  a  leisurely  way,  placing  seats  for  the  audience.     Kropil- 


MAXIM  GORKI  23 

KIN,  with  a  gun  slung  behind  his  back,  stands  near  the  pines. 

Kropilkin.     All  new  folks? 

Pustobaika.     What's  that? 

Kro.  I  say,  all  new  folks?  Not  the  same  people  who  rented  it  last 
Summer? 

Pus  [taking  his  pipe  out'].     They're  all  alike. 

Kro.  [sighing] .  To  be  sure.  They  are  all  the  same  kind  of  gentry. 
Oh,  oh,  oh! 

Pus.  Summerfolk  are  all  alike.  I  have  seen  hosts  of  them,  these  five 
years.  To  me  they  are  like  bubbles  in  a  puddle  of  water,  they  swell  and 
burst,  —  burst.     .     .     .     That's  the  way  of  it. 

[  Young  people  with  accordions,  mandolins,  and  guitars  appear  on  the 
forest  road.] 

Kro.     They  have  music,  too  !     Are  they  going  to  play  on  the  stage? 

Pus.     Certainly.     Why  shouldn't  they? 

Kro.  I  never  saw  the  gentry  act.  I  suppose  it's  funny?  Have  you 
seen  them? 

Pus.  Yes,  many  times.  I  have  seen  many  sights.  [On  the  right 
Colon's  distant  laughter  is  heard.] 

Kro.     How  do  they  do  it? 

Pus.  Very  simply.  They  dress  up  in  other  men's  clothes  and  say  — 
all  sorts  of  things,  —  just  what  suits  them  best.  —  They  shout  and  bustle 
about  as  though  they  were  doing  some  work  —  they  make  believe  they're 
angry  and  deceive  one  another.  One  makes  believe  he's  honest,  —  an- 
other that  he's  clever —    or  unhappy Whatever  suits  'em, 

they  act.  [A  whistle  on  the  left,  and  a  voice  calling  a  dog:  '  Bayan ! 
Bayan ! '     Pustobaika  strikes  the  seat  with  the  back  of  his  axe.] 

Kro.     Is  that  so?     So  that  is  how  they  do  it!     And  do  they  sing? 

Pus.  They  don't  sing  much.  The  engineer's  wife  squeals  now  and 
then,  but  she  has  a  thin  voice. 

Kro.     The  gentry  are  coming. 

[Colon  appears  on  the  right  of  the  stage,  followed  by  Sussloff.] 

Colon  [good-naturedly].  Don't  laugh  at  me!  You  can't  compete 
with  me!  You  are  only  40  and  you  are  bald;  I  am  about  60  and  my  hair 
curls  even  though  I  am  grey.     So!     There  you  are!     Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 

[Pustobaika  still  goes  on  clumsily  arranging  the  seats.  Kropilkin 
carefully  withdraws.] 


24  SUMMER-FOLK 

Sus.     That's  your  luck!     Go  on.  —  I  am  listening. 

Colon.  Let's  sit  down.  Well,  then !  as  I  said,  the  Germans  came. 
My  factory  was  an  old  one,  the  machinery  not  good  for  much  —  whereas 
they  set  up  new  machinery,  —  and  their  goods  were  superior  to  mine  and 
cheaper.  I  saw  that  my  business  would  run  down.  I  thought  it  over,  —  I 
couldn't  compete  with  the  Germans.  So  I  decided  to  sell  out  to  them. 
[He  lapses  into  silence. ] 

Sus.     And  you  sold  everything  out? 

Colon.  I  left  my  city  house,  an  old  and  extensive  house.  And  now  I 
am  out  of  business,  —  I  have  only  one  business  —  that's  to  count  my  money. 
Oh !  Ho !  I  am  an  old  fool,  if  the  truth  be  known.  ...  I  sold  out  and 
at  once  felt  like  an  orphan.  —  I  am  lonesome  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  myself.  Here  are  my  hands,  for  instance,  ...  I  never  noticed 
them  before  —  now  they  swing  like  useless  things. 

[He  laughs.  A  pause.  Varvara  appears  on  the  veranda  with 
her  hands  behind  her  back  and  slowly  walks  up  and  down.~\  There  is 
Bassoff's  wife  walking  up  and  down.  A  fine  woman.  She  draws  like  a 
magnet!     If  I  only  were  ten  years  younger. — 

Sus.     I  thought  you  were  married? 

Colon.  I  have  been  married  several  times.  —  But  some  of  my  wives 
died,  and  others  ran  away.  —  I  had  children,  too;  two  girls.  Both  died. — 
And  a  boy.  —  He  was  drowned.  —  I  was  lucky  where  women  were  con- 
cerned.—  I  got  them  all  here,  in  Russia,  and  easily,  too,  —  it's  not  hard 
to  get  wives  away  from  husbands  in  Russia  !  Russians  make  bad  husbands ! 
Sometimes  I  came  and  looked  about  me  and  I  saw  that  the  wife 
was  a  worthy  woman,  while  the  husband  was  a  nonentity.  So  I  would  win 
her  over.  —  Oh!  oh!  [Vlass  appears  on  the  veranda;  he  stands  and 
looks  at  his  sister. ~\  Yes,  all  that  is  past  and  gone.  —  And  now  there  is 
nothing  more,  —  nobody  and  nothing,  —  you  understand! 

Sus.     How  do  you  expect  to  live  now? 

Colon.  I  don't  know.  Advise  me!  By  the  way,  my  dear  boy,  your 
botvinya  *  and  suckling  pig  are  impossible  dishes;  whoever  eats  pig  in 
Summer.  —  It's  an  anachronism. 

Vlass  [speaking  to  Varvara].     Well,  Varya? 

*  A  cold  soup  of  kvas,  sliced  cucumbers,  sifted  spinage,  and  cold  fish. 


MAXIM  GORKI  25 

Var.  [to  Vlass].     Nothing.  —  I  am  a  poor  mortal,  am  I  not? 

Vlass  [putting  his  arm  about  her  waist'].  I  would  like  to  tell  you 
something  comforting  —  but  I  don't  know  what  to  say. 

Var.     Don't  mind  me,  dear. 

Colon.     Mr.  Chernoff  is  coming  our  way. 

Sus.     Clown ! 

Colon.     He  is  not  the  bashful  kind,  but  a  loafer,  I  believe. 

Vlass  [approaching].     Who  is  a  loafer? 

Colon.  My  nephew.  Oh!  oh!  Perhaps  you  too  are  not  much  of 
a  business  man?     Are  you? 

Vlass.  Since  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  estimable 
Semion  Semionovitch,  I  take  it  that  when  you  say  'business'  you  mean 
squeezing  your  neighbor  out  of  his  worldly  goods?  Alas!  I  am  not  a 
business  man  in  that  sense  of  the  word. 

Colon.  Oh!  Oh!  Don't  despair!  In  youth,  you  understand  that's 
not  an  easy  matter;  the  conscience  is  still  tender,  and  the  head  is  filled  with 
pink  jelly  instead  of  brains.  But  when  you  mature,  you  will  stride  some- 
one's neck  most  comfortably.  Oh!  oh!  Prosperity  is  attained  much  more 
easily  if  you  stride  your  neighbor's  neck. 

Vlass.  I  believe  you;  you  are  surely  an  experienced  man  in  such 
matters. 

[He  bows  and  withdraws.] 

Colon.  I  suppose  he  is  tickled  at  saucing  me.  Well,  let  him;  let  the 
youngsters  have  their  fun. 

[His  head  droops  and  he  is  silent.] 

Kal.  [appearing  on  the  veranda].    You  don't  wish  to  make  up? 

Var.  [in  an  undertone].     I  can't. 

Kal.     Whose  advent  are  you  expecting  now? 

Var.     I  don't  know ;  I  don't  know. 

[Kaleria  shrugs  her  shoulders,  descends  the  steps  of  the  veranda, 
goes  to  the  left  and  disappears  round  the  corner  of  the  house.] 

Colon.     Well,  Petrucha,  how  am  I  to  live  now? 

Sus.     It  can't  be  decided  right  off.     I  must  think  it  over. 

Colon.     Can't  be  decided,  eh?  —  What  did  you  say? 

Sus.     I  didn't  say  anything. 

Colon.     No,  and  you  never  will,  that's  what  I  think.      [Bassoff  and 


26  SUMMER-FOLK 

Shalimoff  are  seen  coming  out  of  the  forest  on  the  right.  They  bow  as 
they  pass  and  sit  down  at  the  table  under  the  pines.  Bassoff  has  a  towel 
hanging  round  his  neck.']  There  are  the  lawyer  and  the  author.  [Ad- 
dressing them.]     Are  you  taking  a  walk? 

Bas.     We've  just  had  a  dip. 

Colon.     Is  the  water  cold? 

Bas.     So,  so. 

Colon.  I  think  I'll  take  a  bath,  too.  Come,  Piotr;  I  may  be  drowned; 
then  you'll  get  your  legacy  all  the  quicker ! 

Sus.     No,  I  can't  go.     I  must  speak  with  them. 

Colon.  Well,  I  am  going.  [He  rises  and  goes  into  the  forest  on  the 
right.  Susloff  follows  him  with  his  eyes.  Smiles  and  goes  towards 
Bassoff.] 

Bas.  Varya,  order  a  bottle  of  beer  here,  order  three  bottles.  Well, 
how  is  your  uncle? 

[Varvara  goes  in.] 

Sus.     He  annoys  me. 

Bas.     Yes,  old  people  are  not  entertaining. 

Sus.     It  looks  as  though  he  meant  to  live  with  me. 

Bas.     Does  he  ?     Is  that  so  ?     Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

Sus.     Deuce  knows !      I  suppose  it  will  be  as  he  wishes. 

[Sasha  brings  the  beer.] 

Bas.     Well,  Iakov,  why  don't  you  say  something? 

Shal.  I  am  tired.  —  By  the  way,  what's  the  name  of  this  belligerent 
lady? 

Bas.  Marya  Lvovna.  —  Eh,  Piotr,  such  a  battle  of  words  as  we  had 
at  dinner! 

Sus.     With  Marya  Lvovna,  of  course. 

Shal.     A  fierce  woman,  I  say ! 

[Varvara  reappears  on  the  veranda.] 

Sus.     I  don't  fancy  her. 

Shal.     I  am  gentle,  but  I  confess  I  was  almost  rude  to  her. 

Bas.     She  abused  you ! 

Shal.  [to  Sussloff].  Put  yourself  in  my  place.  A  man  writes,  feels 
deeply  —  finally  he  simply  becomes  exhausted.  He  comes  to  his  friends  to 
rest,  to  rusticate,  to  collect  his  thoughts.    .    .    .    All  at  once  a  lady  appears 


MAXIM  GORKI  27 

and  begins  to  question  him  :  What  are  your  beliefs?  What  are  your  ideals? 
Why  don't  you  write  of  this?  Why  don't  you  mention  that?  Then  she 
says,  this  passage  is  clear,  and  that  one  —  false,  ugly.  —  My  dear  woman, 
write  it  yourself,  then  it  will  be  clear,  and  true,  and  noble !  Write  like  a 
genius,  only  leave  me  alone !     Oh  my  ! 

Bas.  You  must  bear  it,  my  friend !  When  people  travel  on  the  Volga 
they  make  a  business  of  eating  Sterlet  soup;  —  so  it  is  when  people  meet  an 
author,  —  every  one  else  wants  to  seem  clever.     You  must  bear  it ! 

Shal.     It's  indelicate !      It's  not  clever!     Does  she  come  here  often? 

Bas.  No.  —  I  mean,  yes,  rather  often.  I  am  not  fond  of  her,  either! 
She  is  as  straight  as  a  ramrod.  —  She  is  my  wife's  friend,  and  (I  confess) 
she  has  spoilt  my  wife.  [He  looks  round  and  sees  Varvara  on  the  terrace.] 
You  here,  Varya? 

Far.     As  you  see. 

[Zamysloff  and  Yulia  Fillipovna  are  walking  briskly  on  the  road 
that  leads  from  Sussloff's  house.  They  are  laughing.  Shalimoff  with 
a  smile  looks  at  Bassoff,  who  seems  uneasy.'] 

Zam.     Varvara !     We  are  getting  up  a  picnic. 

Yulia.     How  do  you  do,  my  dear ! 

Var.      Come  in. 

[They  disappear  in  the  house.  SUSSLOFF  rises  and  slowly  follows 
them.] 

Zam.     Is  Kaleria  Vassilievna  at  home? 

Shal.  [laughing].  I  believe  you  are  a  little  afraid  of  your  wife,  Ser- 
guey? 

Bas  [with  a  sigh].     Nonsense!     She  is  a  splendid  woman! 

Shal.  [with  a  smile].     Then  why  do  you  say  it  so  dolefully? 

Bas.  ,  You  see  she  is  jealous  of  me  —  in  regard  to  my  assistant.  You 
understand?  —  And  his  wife,  ....  just  observe  her.  —  I  tell  you, 
she  is  a  most  fascinating  woman  ! 

[SoNYA  and  ZlMlN  pass  at  the  back  of  the  stage.] 

Shal.  Is  that  so?  We'll  keep  an  eye  on  her.  But  let  me  tell  you 
that  this  Marya  Lvovna  takes  away  all  my  desire  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
ladies  of  the  neighborhood  ! 

Bas.  Well,  this  lady  is  entirely  different.  I  tell  you  she  is  simply 
a  stunner !     You  will  see  for  yourself.      [A  pause.]      You  haven't  published 


28  SUMMER-FOLK 

anything  for  some  time,  Yacov.     Are  you  writing  anything  important  ? 

Shal.  [annoyed].  Absolutely  nothing,  I  tell  you!  What  can  I  write 
when  I  can't  understand  anything.  Men  seem  to  be  somehow  tangled  up, 
contradictory,  slippery,  intangible.  — 

Bas.  That's  what  you  should  portray,  —  you  should  say:  'I  don't 
understand  it.'     Be  sincere  above  all  things. 

Shal.  Thank  you  for  the  advice.  Sincerity !  It  isn't  that !  I  cer- 
tainly could  do  one  thing  sincerely:  I  could  lay  down  my  pen  and  like  Dio- 
cletian start  a  cabbage  patch. 

[Beggars  are  heard  singing  softly  round  the  corner  of  Bassoff's 
house:  'Benefactors  who  feed  us;  give  us  alms  for  Christ's  and  the  holi- 
day's sake,  —  we  will  pray  for  your  parents.'  Pustobaika  appears  and 
goes  towards  the  sound  to  drive  the  beggars  off.~\  No,  I  must  eat,  which 
means  that  I  must  write,  and  for  whom  am  I  writing?  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know.  The  reader  ought  to  be  clearly  conceived  in  one's  mind.  Who 
and  what  he  is.  Five  years  ago  I  was  sure  I  knew  my  reader  and  what  he 
expected  of  me  —  and  all  at  once,  —  I  can't  explain  how,  —  I  lost  him. 
That's  where  the  tragedy  comes  in.  They  say  a  new  reader  has  come  to  the 
front  now.     Who  is  he?  — 

Bas.  I  don't  understand  you.  What  do  you  mean  by  '  losing  your 
reader'?  Here  am  I  ....  all  of  us,  the  intelligent  public  of  the 
land,  —  are  we  not  readers?     I  don't  understand.     How  can  you  lose  us? 

Shal.  [thoughtfully].  The  intelligent  public  —  of  course  I  am  not 
thinking  about  that  —  but  about  this  'new'  reader. 

Bas.  [shakes  his  head].     Well,  I  don't  understand. 

Shal.  Neither  do  I.  I  go  about  and  see  people.  They  are  a  dis- 
tinctly different  type,  face,  eyes,  everything.  I  look  at  them ;  I  feel  that 
they  won't  read  me ;  they  are  not  interested  in  that  sort  of  thing.  'Last 
Winter  I  read  at  a  social  gathering  —  the  same  thing  happened.  I  saw 
many  eyes  attentively  fixed  on  me,  examining  me,  but  they  were  strangers 
to  me,  —  they  don't  sympathize  with  me.  —  They  don't  need  me  —  any 
more  than  they  do  Latin.  —  I  am  too  old  for  them  —  and  all  my  thoughts 
are  old.  —  I  don't  know  who  they  are,  whom  they  love,  what  they  want. 

Bas.  Yes;  that's  interesting.  Only  I  think  your  nerves  are  playing 
you  a  trick.  You  will  rest  here  and  relax,  then  you  will  find  your  reader. 
The  principal  thing  in  life  is  a  calm,  attentive  attitude  towards  everything  — 


MAXIM  GORKI  29 

that's  what  I  believe  in.  Well,  let's  go  in.  Now,  Yasha,  I  have  a  request 
to  make.  I  wish  you  would  —  somehow  —  in  one  way  or  another  —  act 
the  peacock's  part. 

Shal.  [surprised].  What's  that?  —  the  peacock's  part.  What's  that 
for? 

Bas.  I  mean  open  your  peacock's  fan  and  show  off  your  feathers  to 
my  wife  —  Varya  —  get  her  interested  —  for  friendship's  sake. 

Shal.  [after  a  pause].  You  mean  I  must  play  the  part  of  a  lightning 
conductor.     You  are  a  queer  man.     All  right,  if  you  say  so. 

Bas.  No,  no,  don't  think  I  mean  anything  —  she's  a  dear  girl  —  only 
somehow  she  pines  for  something.  Everybody's  longing  for  something 
now  —  a  certain  attitude  of  mind,  perhaps.  Queer  conversations  —  all 
bosh,  you  know  !  By  the  way,  are  you  married?  I  heard  you  were,  that  is, 
I  heard  that  you  were  divorced. 

Shal.  Yes,  and  married  again,  and  divorced  again.  It  is  not  easy, 
you  know,  to  find  a  comrade  in  a  wife. 

Bas.  Yes,  that's  true,  very  true,  my  dear  fellow.  [They  enter  the 
house.  A  lady  in  a  yellow  dress  and  a  young  man  in  a  plaid  suit  come  out 
of  the  ivoods.] 

The  Lady.     No  one  yet  1     And  it  was  to  begin  at  6  !     I  like  that ! 

The  Man.     I  really  ought  to  act  the  leading  man's  parts. 

The  Lady.     That's  what  I  thought. 

The  Man.  Yes,  the  leading  man's  parts,  and  he  gives  me  the  comic 
parts !     It's  absurd,  I  say ! 

The  Lady.  He  keeps  all  the  best  parts  for  himself.  [They  re-enter 
the  forest  on  the  right.  Sonya  and  Zimin  appear  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. In  the  rear  of  the  stage  Sussloff  is  seen  walking  slowly  towards  his 
house.] 

Zimin  [in  a  low  voice].  I  won't  go,  Sonya.  I  leave  tomorrow,  you 
know. 

Sonya  [also  speaks  low].  Yes,  go,  but  do  be  careful,  Max,  I  beg  of 
you.  — 

Zimin  [takes  her  hand].     And  you,  too,      .... 

Sonya.     Au  revoir! — We'll  meet  in  three  weeks,  not  before? 

Zimin.  No,  not  before.  Au  revoir,  dear  Sonya.  In  my  absence, 
don't —  [He  hesitates  and  is  silent.] 

Sonya.     Well? 


3o  SUMMER-FOLK 

Zimin.     No;  nothing  —  just  foolishness.     Au  revoir,  Sonya  !  — 

Sony  a  [detaining  his  hand].     No;  tell  me,  '  in  your  absence,'  what? 

Zimin  [softly,  looking  down].     You  won't  marry? 

Sonya.  Don't  you  dare  to  speak  that  way,  Max,  nor  think,  either! 
Do  you  hear  me !     That's  absurd,  and  mean.     You  understand,  Maxim ! 

Zimin.  Don't,  don't  be  offended !  Forgive  me,  please !  All  sorts 
of  foolish  thoughts  come  into  my  head!  A  man  is  not  master  of  his 
thoughts,  you  know. 

Sonya  [excitedly].  That's  not  true!  That's  a  lie,  Maxim.  I  want 
you  to  know  that  it's  a  lie,  invented  to  justify  weakness;  remember,  Maxim, 
I  don't  believe  it.     Go ! 

Zimin  [presses  her  hand].  Yes,  dear  Sonya,  I  will  remember  .  .  . 
I  will!  Au  revoir,  my  darling!  [Zimin  hastily  disappears  behind  the  cor- 
ner of.  the  house.  Sonya  looks  after  him  and  slowly  mounts  the  steps  of 
the  veranda,  and  then  goes  into  the  house.  Dudakoff,  Vlass,  and 
Marya  Lvovna  come  out  of  the  woods  on  the  right,  followed  by  Colon. 
Marya  Lvovna  sits  down  on  the  settee.     Colon  sits  beside  her.    Yawns.] 

Dud.     Men  are  thoughtless,  and  life  is  hard.     Why  is  that? 

Vlass.  I  am  aware  of  that,  doctor!  I'll  go  on  with  my  story:  My 
father  was  a  cook,  a  man  of  changeable  moods ;  he  loved  me  devotedly  and 
took  me  along  wherever  he  went  —  like  his  pipe.  I  ran  away  several  times 
to  my  mother,  but  he  would  come  to  the  laundry  where  she  worked,  smash 
things  generally,  and  recapture  me.  While  he  was  with  the  Bishop  a  fatal 
thought  entered  his  head  —  to  educate  me!  He  put  me  into  a  seminary  for 
the  clergy.  But  after  a  few  months,  my  father  left  the  Bishop's  service  and 
hired  himself  out  to  an  engineer,  and  I  was  transferred  to  a  school  for  rail- 
way engineers.  Next  year  I  was  put  into  an  agricultural  school,  because 
my  father  entered  the  service  of  a  president  of  a  Zemstvo  commission.  The 
art  school  and  the  commercial  school  had  also  the  honor  of  harboring  me. 
Briefly,  at  seventeen,  the  distaste  for  science  absolutely  prevented  my  study- 
ing anything,  even  a  game  of  cards  or  how  to  smoke.  Why  do  you  look 
at  me  in  that  way,  Marya  Lvovna  ?  — 

Marya  [lost  in  thought].     It  is  all  so  sad. 

Vlass.     Sad?     But  it  is  all  in  the  past. 

A  woman  with  a  bandaged  cheek.  Say,  have  you  seen  Genitchka? 
He  is  a  little  boy.     Didn't  he  come  this  way?     He  wore  a  straw  hat.     He 


MAXIM  GORKI  31 

has  flaxen  hair. 

Marya.     No,  we  haven't  seen  him. 

The  Woman.  That's  too  bad !  He  is  the  RozoftY  boy !  He  is  real 
smart ;  haven't  you  seen  him  ? 

Vlass.     No,  we  haven't  see  him. 

[The  woman  mutters  something  and  disappears  in  the  woods.'] 

Colon.     Well,  Mr.  Chernoff,  I  must  say  that  —  you  understand  — 

Vlass.     What?     No,  I  don't. 

Colon.     I  like  you. 

Vlass.      Really  ? 

Colon.     That's  the  truth. 

Vlass.     I  am  delighted  for  your  sake!      [Colon  laughs. ~\ 

Dud.     You  will  not  get  on,  Vlass ! 

Vlass.     When  ? 

Dud.     Never.     In  general. 

Colon.  Of  course,  you  won't  get  on  —  because  you  are  honest  and 
upright,  ....  and  every  one,  you  understand,  is  interested  to  try, 
—  whether  you  will  ever  bend. 

Vlass.  That  remains  to  be  seen !  Meanwhile  let's  have  some  tea. 
The  folks  are  probably  at  the  tea-table. 

Dud.     Yes,  that's  the  thing  to  do. 

Colon.     I  wouldn't  object  to  going.     But  is  it  proper  for  me  to  go? 

Vlass.  Certainly,  gran'pa.  I'll  lead  the  way.  [He  runs  ahead,  the 
rest  slowly  follow.] 

Colon.     A  very  nice  fellow. 

Marya.     Yes,  a  good  fellow,  only  he  shouldn't  mock  at  life. 

Colon.  That's  nothing.  That  will  right  itself  in  time.  In  general, 
honesty  is  fastened  to  a  man  somewhere  on  the  outside,  like  a  necktie,  so  to 
speak.  A  man  usually  advertises  himself :  '  I  am  honest ! '  'I  am  honest ! ' 
When  a  girl  says  about  herself,  '  I  am  a  maiden ! '  'I  am  a  maiden ! '  it's  a 
sure  sign  she  is  no  longer  a  maiden  !     Ha  !  ha  !  ha !     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Marya.  Who  can  stop  you !  [  They  go  up  on  the  veranda.  Suss- 
LOFF  meets  them.] 

Colon.     Where  are  you  bound,  Piotr? 

Sus.     Nowhere.     To  get  a  smoke  outdoors. 

[Sussloff  goes  slowly  towards  his  house.      The  woman  with  a  band- 


32  SUMMER-FOLK 

aged  cheek  runs  towards  him.  A  gentleman  wearing  a  tall  hat  comes  out 
of  the  forest,  stops  and  shrugs  his  shoulders. ] 

The  Woman.  Have  you  seen  a  little  boy,  sir?  Kolichka.  —  I  mean 
Genitchka.  —  He  wore  a  jacket! 

Sus.     No.     Off  with  you  ! 

[  The  woman  runs  away.] 

The  Gentleman  [bowing  politely~\.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  were  you 
looking  for  me? 

Sus.  [surprised].     I  wasn't  looking  for  anybody.     That  woman  was. 

The  Gentleman.     You  see  I  was  invited  to  play  the  leading  part. 

Sus.  [walking  away].     That  does  not  concern  me! 

The  Gentleman  [offended].  But,  allow  me,  whom  does  it  concern? 
Where  can  the  stage  manager  be  found?  I  have  been  looking  for  him  for 
two  hours.  Is  he  gone?  —  The  ignoramus!  [Goes  up  on  the  stage  and 
disappears  behind  the  scenery.  Olga  is  coming  on  the  road  from  Suss- 
loff's  house.] 

Olga.     How  do  you  do,  Piotr  Ivanovitch? 

Sus.     Good  evening.      Don't  you  think  it  is  sultry? 

Olga.     Sultry?     I  think  it's 

Sus.  [lighting  a  cigarette].  I  am  stifling.  I  met  some  crazy  people. 
They  are  looking  for  boys  and  stage  managers. 

Olga.     Is  that  so?     You  are  tired?     Your  hands  shake. 

Sus.  [goes  back  with  her  to  Bassoff's  house].  It's  because  I  drank 
too  much  last  night  and  slept  poorly. 

Olga.     Why  do  you  drink? 

Sus.     To  live  merrier. 

Olga.     Have  you  met  my  husband? 

Sus.     He  is  drinking  tea  at  the  Bassoffs'. 

Far.  [appearing  on  the  veranda].    Are  you  coming  to  see  me,  Olga? 

Olga.     I  am  taking  a  walk. 

Far.     Why  did  you  leave  Piotr  Ivanovitch  ? 

Sus.  [smiles].  I  am  about,  as  usual.  I  was  tired  of  listening  to  the 
honorable  author  and  Marya  Lvovna. 

Far.     Is  that  it?     You  are  not  interested?     I  am. — 

Sus  [shrugs  his  shoulder].  You  are  at  liberty  to  be.  Au  revoir, 
meanwhile. 

[He  goes  towards  his  house.] 


MAXIM  GORKI  33 

Olga  [in  a  subdued  voice].     Do  you  understand  why  he  acts  like  that? 

Far.     No.     I  don't  care  to.     Shall  we  go  in? 

Olga.     Stay  with  me  awhile;  they  won't  miss  you. 

Far.      Certainly  not.     What  ails  you? 

Olga.  How  can  I  be  indifferent,  Varya?  He  returned  from  town, 
looked  in  for  a  minute  and  disappeared.  .  .  .  Surely  you  don't  think 
that  can  make  me  happy? 

Far.  He  is  at  our  house.  [  They  walk  slowly  towards  the  group  of 
pines.] 

Olga  [excitedly].  He  runs  away  from  me  and  the  children.  I  under- 
stand he  needs  rest  from  his  work.  But  I  am  tired,  too,  very  tired !  I  can't 
do  anything,  everything  falls  from  my  hands.  This  maddens  me  1  He 
should  remember  that  I  gave  him  my  strength  and  youth  —  everything ! 

Far.  [kindly].  My  dear  Olga.  It  seems  to  me  you  like  to  complain. 
No?  Am  I  mistaken?  [Muffled  voices  are  heard  disputing  within;  they 
grow  louder.] 

Olga.  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you  are  right!  I  shall  tell  him  — 
that  it's  better  that  I  should  go  —  and  the  children. — 

Far.,  That's  a  good  plan !  You  must  simply  part  for  a  while.  Go 
—  I'll  give  you  the  money. 

Olga.     I  already  owe  you  so  much. 

Far.     Nonsense !      Calm  yourself.     Let  us  sit  down  here. 

Olga.  I  hate  myself  because  I  cannot  live  without  your  help.  You 
think  it's  easy  for  me  to  take  your  money  —  your  husband's  money?  How 
can  I  respect  myself  if  I  don't  know  how  to  live  —  if  I  must  have  some  one 
to  brace  me  up  all  my  life.  Sometimes,  let  me  tell  you,  I  don't  even  like 
you,  —  I  hate  you !  Because  you  are  so  calm,  and  you  only  reason ;  you 
don't  feel. 

Far.  Dearest,  I  only  know  how  to  be  silent.  I  can't  allow  myself  to 
complain  —  that's  all ! 

Olga.  Those  who  help  men,  must  despise  them  in  their  hearts.  I 
want  to  be  the  one  to  help.  [Rumin  passes  quickly  and  enters  the  house  of 
the  Bassoffs.] 

Far.     So  that  you  could  despise  men? 

Olga.     Yes,  I  don't  love  them.     I  don't  like  Marya  Lvovna,  —  why 

3 


34  SUMMER-FOLK 

does  she  judge  so  harshly?  I  don't  like  Rumin  —  he  only  argues  and  does 
nothing,  dares  nothing.  I  don't  like  your  husband.  He  has  become  as  soft 
as  putty,  he  is  afraid  of  you.  Is  that  nice?  And  your  brother — is  in  love 
with  that  arguer,  that  wicked  Marya  Lvovna. 

Far.  [surprised,  reprehensively].  Olga !  Olga !  What  ails  you! 
You  are  wrong  —  listen! 

Olga.  Yes,  yes,  I  may  be  wrong!  And  that  haughty  Kaleria !  She 
talks  of  beauty!  —  she  simply  wants  to  marry! 

Far.  [coldly  and  sternly].  Olga  !  You  must  not  give  vent  to  such  feel- 
ings.     It  will  put  you  in  such  a  bad  light. 

Olga  [under  her  breath,  but  emphatically  and  viciously .]  I  don't  care 
where  it  puts  me  if  only  I  escape  this  slow  torture  !  I  want  to  live  !  I  am  as 
good  as  anybody  else!  I  understand  everything!  I  am  not  a  fool!  I  see 
that  you,  too  —  oh!  I  understand!  You  can  enjoy  life.  Your  husband  is 
rich  —  he  is  not  any  too  scrupulous  in  business  matters  —  everyone  says  that. 
You  must  know  it!  And  you,  too,  —  you  have  planned  some  way  to  have 
no  children.  — 

Far.  [rises  slowly  and  looks  at  Olga  in  surprise'].  Planned?  What 
do  you  mean  ? 

Olga  [hesitating].  I  didn't  mean  anything.  I  only  wanted  to  say  — 
my  husband  told  me  that  many  women  don't  want  to  have  children.  — 

Far.  I  don't  understand;  but  I  feel  that  you  suspect  me  in  something 
low.     I  don't  choose  to  ask  what  it  is. 

Olga.  Don't  talk  so,  Varya.  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way.  Only 
it's  true  that  your  husband  —  people  talk  about  him. 

Far.  [shuddering,  speaking  deliberately].  You  were  like  a  sister  to 
me.  Had  I  not  known  how  hard  your  life  was  —  if  I  hadn't  remembered 
that  once  we  planned  a  different  life. 

Olga  [sincerely] .     Forgive  me  —  do  !     I  am.  wicked.  — 

Far.  We  planned  a  good,  cheerful  life  and  we  have  both  buried  our 
dreams.     It  hurts  me,  Olga.     Did  you  mean  it?     It  hurts. — 

Olga.      Don't,  Varya,  don't ! 

Far.     I  am  going.      [Olga  rises.]      No,  don't  follow  me,  don't ! 

Olga.     Forever,  Varya,  forever? 

Far.  Don't  speak!  Wait  —  I  don't  understand  why  you  should 
have  attacked  me? 


MAXIM  GORKI  35 

[Colon  quickly  comes  down  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  and  approach- 
ing Varvara,  takes  her  hand.] 

Colon.  I  ran  away,  madam!  Mr.  Rumin  is  an  interesting  philoso- 
pher—  he  got  the  better  of  me,  so  I  had  to  leave!  I  can't  argue.  So  I  ran 
away!  Let  him  talk!  I  would  rather  chat  with  you.  This  old  devil 
likes  you  very  much.  Indeed  he  does.  But  what's  the  matter 'with  you? 
You  seem  disturbed? 

[He  looks  at  Olga  and  groans.] 

Olga  [gently].     Shall  I  go,  Varya? 

Var.  [firmly].  Yes.  [Olga  goes  quickly.  Varvara  looks  after 
her  and  then  addresses  Colon]  — You  made  some  remark  —  What  was  it? 
Excuse  me. 

Colon  [simply  and  in  a  friendly  manner].  Madame,  the  more  I  ob- 
serve you  the  more  I  become  convinced  that  you  are  not  happy.  Isn't  that 
true?      [He  laughs.] 

Var.  [measuring  him  from  head  to  foot,  speaks  calmly  and  deliber- 
ately]. Can  you  tell  me,  Semion  Semionovitch,  who  gave  you  the  right  to 
speak  to  me  in  this  manner? 

Colon.  Eh,  eh !  Don't  talk  that  way !  My  age  and  my  experience 
gave  me  the  right. 

Var.  Excuse  me.  But  it  seems  to  me  —  that  is  not  sufficient  to  allow 
you  to  interfere.  — 

Colon  [good-naturedly].  Nobody  interferes.  I  see  you  are,  so  to 
speak,  a  stranger  and  so,  you  understand,  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  some- 
thing—  but  I  suppose  I  went  awkwardly  about  it,  —  so  forgive  me,  if  that's 
the  case. 

Var.  [smiling] .  Forgive  me,  too.  I  may  have  expressed  myself  too 
abruptly,  —  but  really  I  am  not  used  to  such  insinuations. 

Colon.  I  understand.  I  see  you  are  not  used  to  it !  How  could  you 
be  !     Let  us  go  and  take  a  walk  !     Humor  the  old  man  ! 

[Semionoff  on  a  bicycle,  riding  furiously,  brings  up  near  Colon.] 

Colon  [startled].     God  bless  you,  my  dear  sir!     What  are  you  about? 

Sem.  [out  of  breath].     Excuse  me  —  is  it  over? 

Colon.     Over!     What?     Bless  my  heart! 

Sem.     Such  a  pity!      My  tire  burst!     I  went  to  two  rehearsals  today. 

Colon.     What's  that  to  me? 


36  SUMMER-FOLK 

Sent.  You  don't  take  part?  Excuse  me!  I  thought  you  were  made 
up. 

Colon  [to  Varvara].     What  does  he  mean? 

Far.  [to  Semionoff].     Have  you  come  to  rehearse? 

Sent.     Yes,  and  — 

Far.     They  haven't  begun  yet. 

Sent,  [elated].  Oh,  I  thank  you  —  that's  too  bad  —  but  I  am  always 
so  punctual ! 

Colon.     Why  is  it  too  bad? 

Son.  [gallantly'].  It  would  have  been  too  bad,  if  I  were  late.  I  beg 
your  pardon.      [He  goes  aside,  still  bowing.] 

Colon.  What  a  monstrous  insect.  He  almost  crushed  me.  And  I 
am  supposed  to  enjoy  it!  Let's  get  away,  or  some  other  beetle  will  walk 
over  us ! 

Far.  [absent-mindedly].  Yes;  come!  I  will  get  my  shawl.  Wait  a 
minute.     [She  goes  into  the  house.     Semionoff  accosts  Colon.] 

Sem.  Two  more  are  coming  presently.  Two  young  ladies  and  a 
cadet.  — 

Colon.     Are  they?     Very  glad  to  hear  it. 

Sem.  They'll  be  here  soon  —  you  know  it's  the  cadet  whose  sister  shot 
herself. 

Colon.     Indeed? 

Sem.     Wasn't  it  a  sensational  affair?     A  young  lady  shooting  herself. 

Colon.     Yes.     An  accident? 

Sem.  I  really  thought  you  were  made  up.  Your  face  and  hair  looked 
as  though  you  were  made  up. 

Colon.     Thank  you ! 

Sem.     I  am  sure  I  don't  flatter  you. 

Colon.     I  believe  you,  only  I  don't  see  wherein  you  could  flatter  me. 

Sem.  Why?  When  a  man  is  made  up  he  always  looks  better  than 
he  naturally  does.      Perhaps  you  are  the  decorator? 

[Sussloff  emerges  from  the  woods,  the  lady  in  yellow  is  also  seen 
approaching  with  the  young  man  in  a  plaid  suit.] 

Colon.     No,  I  am  simply  this  gentleman's  uncle. 

The  lady  in  yellow.     Mr.  Sazonoff ! 

Sem.     Someone  is  calling  me.     It's  strange  that  though  I  have  such  a 


MAXIM  GORKI  37 

simple  name  no  one  seems  to  remember  it.     Au  re  voir ! 

[He  goes  towards  the  calling  voice,  profusely  bowing  to  the  lady.] 

Sus.  [approaching].  Have  you  seen  my  wife?  [Colon  shakes  his 
head  and  draws  a  sigh  of  relief.]      Those  artists  are  assembled  in  the  house. 

Colon.  This  burr  stuck  to  me.  A  decorator  he  called  me  —  spindle- 
legged  Spinoza !  Takes  up  a  place  on  earth.  There  they  are  disputing 
again! 

[Kaleria,  Shalimoff,  Rumin,  and  Varvara  come  out  of  the  house. 
Colon  rises  to  meet  them,  attentively  listening  to  the  altercation.  Suss- 
LOFF  takes  his  seat  and  gloomily  looks  at  the  disputants.] 

Shal.  [wearily].  No;  I  am  willing  to  flee  from  her  to  the  North  Pole. 
She  is  a  spit-fire ! 

Rumin.  My  whole  nature  rises  up  in  wrath  against  her  despotism. 
People  of  that  type  are  criminally  intolerant.  Why  do  they  suppose  that 
every  one  must  accept  their  belief? 

Var  [looks  at  them  fixedly].     Point  out  something  greater  and  nobler. 

Kal.  You  call  great  and  noble  those  cold  dreams  lacking  all  poetical 
fervor  —  those  dreams  of  general  satiety. 

Var.  [excitedly].  I  don't  know.  I  see  nothing  brighter.  [Shali- 
moff listens  attentively  to  the  words  of  Varvara.]  I  am  not  a  talker, 
but  I  feel.  Men  ought  to  be  awakened  to  the  realization  of  the  dignity 
which  exists  in  all  men  alike.  Then  we  won't  insult  each  other.  We  don't 
know  how  to  respect  man,  and  that  is  what  is  so  painful,  so  distressing. 

Kal.     Well,  it  certainly  is  not  Marya  Lvovna  who  can  teach  us  that. 

Var.     You  are  all  so  opposed  to  her !     Why? 

Rumin.  She  is  the  one  who  is  unfriendly.  She  exasperates  us.  When 
I  hear  how  some  men  define  life  it  seems  to  me  as  though  some  one  rough 
and  strong  were  holding  me  and  seeking  to  mutilate  me. 

Kal.     How  hard  it  is  to  live  in  such  an  environment. 

Var.  And  is  it  easier  to  live  among  those  who  complain,  Kaleria? 
Let  us  be  just.  Is  it  easier  to  live  among  men  who  only  groan  or  talk  of 
themselves  and  fill  their  life  with  complaints  and  nothing  else?  What  do 
we  put  into  life  —  any  of  us?     You  or  I? 

Rumin.     And  what  does  Marya  Lvovna  put  in?     Enmity? 

Kal.  Forgotten  words  —  forgotten  and  so  much  the  better.  Live 
men  cannot  live  by  dead  precepts. 


38  SUMMER-FOLK 

[The  amateurs  are  gathering  about  the  stage.  Pustabaika  places 
some  chairs  on  the  stage.] 

Colon.  You  shouldn't  get  excited,  Varvara.  Don't  you  think  so? 
This  conversation  ought  to  stop.  Let  us  go  and  take  a  walk  —  you 
promised. 

Var.  Yes,  I'll  go.  I  cannot  express  what  I  feel.  I  don't  know 
how  to  do  it.     And  I  am  sorry,  so  sorry  to  be  mentally  mute. 

Shal.  I  can  vouch  that  it  isn't  so.  Will  you  allow  me  to  accompany 
you? 

Far.     Certainly. 

Colon.  Let  us  walk  to  the  river  —  to  the  pavilion.  Why  do  you  get 
excited,  madam? 

Var.  Oh,  I  feel  the  depressingness  of  misunderstandings.  [They 
disappear  on  the  forest  road.      Sussloff  looks  after  them  and  smiles. ,] 

Rumin  [also  looking  after  them  as  they  disappear].  How  she  has 
waked  up  since  Shalimoft  came.  How  she  talks!  And  what  is  he?  She 
can't  help  seeing  that  he  is  used  up,  that  he  has  lost  ground  under  his  feet, 
and  when  he  speaks  he  lies  to  himself  and  deceives  others. 

Kal.  She  knows  it.  Last  night  after  her  conversation  with  him  she 
cried  like  a  disappointed  child.  Yes,  he  seemed  strong  and  resolute  to  her 
from  a  distance ;  she  expected  that  he  would  bring  something  new  and  inter- 
esting into  her  life. 

[Zamysloff  and  Yulia  Fillipovna  appear  round  the  corner  of 
Bassoff's  house.     He  whispers  to  her,  she  laughs.     Sussloff  sees  it.~\ 

Rumin.  Let's  go  in.  Play  something.  I  should  like  to  hear  some 
music. 

Kal.     Very  well.     Yes,  it's  sad  to  see  that  all  around  us  are  so  — 

Yulia.  See !  Our  artists  have  arrived.  The  rehearsal  was  to  be  at 
six.     What  time  is  it  now? 

Zam.  It's  half-past  seven.  Formerly  you  were  the  only  one  late. 
Now  it's  everybody.     This  is  the  result  of  your  influence. 

Yulia.     Is  this  impertinence? 

Zam.  No,  it's  a  compliment.  I  will  go  and  see  my  chief  a  minute, 
with  your  permission. 

Yulia.     Come  back  soon. 

[Zamysloff  goes  to  the  Bassoffs.     Yulia  Fillipovna,  humming, 


MAXIM  GORKI  39 

goes  towards  the  trees,  where  she  sees  her  husband.] 

Sus.     Ah,  where  have  you  been  ? 

Yulia.     Here  and  there.  — 

[Near  the  stage  are  a  lady  in  yellow,  a  young  man,  Semionoff,  a  cadet, 
and  two  young  ladies.  Pustobaika  is  noisily  placing  a  table  on  the  stage. 
Laughter  and  exclamations:]  'Gentlemen!'  'Where  is  the  stage  man- 
ager?' 'Mr.  Stepanoff!'  'He  is  here,  I  saw  him.'  'We  will  be  late.' 
1  In  town.'     '  I  beg  your  pardon  —  Semionoff,  not  Stepanoff,  if  you  please.' 

Sus.  You  spent  all  that  time  with  him!  So  openly  1  You  think  it's 
smart !     Every  one  laughs  at  me.     You  understand ! 

Yulia.     Do  they?  —  that's  too  bad. 

Sus.     We  must  have  an  explanation.     I  cannot  allow  you  — 

Yulia.  The  part  of  the  wife  who  is  a  laughing  stock,  does  not  suit 
me,  either. 

Sus.     Beware,  Yulia.     I  am  capable  of  — 

Yulia.     Of  being  as  rough  as  a  cabman  ?     I  am  aware  of  that.  — 

Sus.       How  dare  you  speak  so!     Harlot! 

Yulia  [in  an  undertone].  We  will  finish  this  scene  at  home.  —  You 
had  better  go.  People  are  coming  this  way.  Such  a  face!  [She  shud- 
ders with  disgust.  Sussloff  takes  a  step  forward,  but  retreats,  and  re- 
peating his  ejaculation  through  his  teeth,  disappears  in  the  woods.] 

Sus.     I'll  shoot  you  some  time. 

Yulia  [calls  after  him].  Not  today?  No?  [She  hums]  'The 
weary  day '  [her  voice  quavers]  '  has  sunk  in  the  crimson  waves.'  [She 
looks  before  her  with  dilated  eyes  and  slowly  bows  her  head.  Marya, 
followed  by  Dudakoff  and  Bassoff,  who  carry  fishing  rods,  comes  from 
Bassoff's  house.     Marya  is  very  much  agitated.] 

Bas.  [twisting  the  reel].  My  highly  esteemed  lady,  you  should  be 
kinder  and  more  lenient.  —  We  are  all  human!  Devil  take  the  man  who 
tangled  up  my  fishing-rods. 

Marya.     Allow  me ! 

Dud.     A  man  grows  weary,  don't  you  know  ? 

Bas.  You  shouldn't  say  that,  my  highly  esteemed  lady.  According 
to  your  theory  if  he  is  an  author  he  must  be  a  hero,  —  isn't  that  what  you 
mean  ?     It  isn't  a  very  comfortable  position  for  every  author  to  be  placed  in. 

Marya.     We  must  always  raise  our  standards. 


4o  SUMMER-FOLK 

Bas.  That  may  be.  —  I  agree  that  we  should  raise  them !  But 
within  the  limits  of  the  possible.  Everything  comes  about  gradually.  Evo- 
lution !     Evolution !     That's  the  point  to  be  emphasized. 

Marya.  I  don't  ask  for  the  impossible.  But  we  live  in  a  country 
where  the  author  alone  can  be  a  herald  of  truth,  an  equitable  judge  of  the 
vices  of  his  people  and  a  defender  of  its  interests.  He  alone  can  be  that,  and 
such  a  one  the  Russian  author  ought  to  be. 

Bas.     Of  course,  but  — 

Marya  [descends  the  terrace  steps~\.  I  don't  see  this  in  your  friend; 
no,  I  don't  see  this  at  all!  What  are  his  ideals?  What  are  his  aims? 
Where  is  his  hatred,  his  love?  Is  he  my  friend  or  my  enemy?  I  don't 
know. 

[She  quickly  disappears  around  the  corner  of  the  house.] 

Bas.  [untangling  his  fishing  rods~\.  I  respect  you,  Marya  Lvovna,  for 
this  enthusiasm.  —  Gone?  Tell  me,  pray,  why  does  she  get  so  excited? 
Even  a  schoolboy  now-a-days  knows  that  a  writer  must  be  honest  .... 
that  he  must  defend  the  people  and  all  that,  and  that  a  soldier  must  be  brave, 
—  a  lawyer  clever  —  and  yet  this  impetuous  woman  still  harps  on  the  old 
lessons.  Come,  dear  doctor,  let's  catch  some  trout.  —  I  wonder  who  tan- 
gled the  fishing-rods  ?     Devil  take  him  ! 

Dud.  Yes,  she  talks  a  great  deal  —  and  cleverly,  too —  But  her  life 
is  simple,  —  she  has  a  good  practice,  and  her  wants  are  few. 

Bas.  This  Yaska  *  is  a  smart  rascal !  You  noticed  how  cleverly  he 
slipped  out  when  she  got  him  in  a  tight  place?  [Laughs. ~\  He  is  a  good 
talker,  but  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  whom  he  left,  and  with  whom, 
by  the  way,  he  lived  but  six  months  and  then  deserted  her  — 

Dud.     You  should  say  '  they  separated.' 

Bas.  Well !  separated,  let  it  be  then !  And  now  that  she  is  dead  he 
wants  to  recover  her  estate.     That's  business ! 

Dud.     That's  shady  business  !     And  unnecessary! 

Bas.  He  doesn't  consider  it  unnecessary,  my  dear  doctor.  —  Let's  go 
to  the  river.  — 

Dud.     Let  me  tell  you.  — 

Bas.     What? 

*  Meaning  the  author  Shalimoff,  abbreviation  for  Jacob,  Iakov. 


MAXIM  GORKI  41 

Dud.  [thoughtfully  and  deliberately].  You  don't  consider  it  peculiar, 
—  that  is,  you  are  not  surprised  that  we  are  not  disgusted  with  one  another? 
What  do  you  think? 

Bas.  [stops].    What?    Are  you  in  earnest? 

Dud.  Yes,  quite  so —  We  seem  to  be  a  very  flippant  sort  of  peo- 
ple, don't  you  think  so? 

Bas.  [walks  on].  No,  I  don't  think  so.  —  I  am  quite  well —  on  the 
whole  I  am  normal,  —  excuse  me 

Dud.     I  am  not  joking. 

Bas.  Joking?  Look  here,  my  dear  Doctor!  ....  let  me 
say  this  to  you:  Doctor,  cure  thyself!  I  will  ask  you,  by  the  way:  You 
won't  push  me  off  into  the  water? 

Dud.  [seriously  shrugging  his  shoulders].     Why  should  I? 

Bas.  [walks  on].  Well,  I  don't  know,  .  .  .  you  are  in  a  strange 
mood.  — 

Dud.  [gloomily].     It  is  difficult  to  talk  to  you  seriously. 

Bas.  Don't,  then !  You  have  a  queer  idea  about  original  conver- 
sation.—  Let  us  not  talk  seriously. 

[Bassoff  and  Dudakoff  go  out.  Sonya  and  Vlass  enter  from  the 
right.  Zamysloff  comes  from  Bassoff's  house  and  runs  toward  the 
stage.  He  is  noisily  met  and  surrounded  by  a  group  of  people  to  whom 
he  explains  something.] 

Sonya.     I  don't  believe  in  your  poetry. 

Vlass.  I  am  sorry  for  you.  —  I  have  some  very  fine  poems.  For 
instance : 

The  peach  and  the  pine-apple 
Have  not  been  made  for  us; 
Then  don't  make  eyes  at  the  peach  and  pine-apple. 

Sonya  [laughs].  Oh,  worthy  Vlass!  Why  do  you  fritter  yourself 
away  on  trifles?     Why  not  consider  yourself  in  a  more  serious  light? 

Vlass  [softly  and  mysteriously].  Wise  Sophia!  I  have  tried!  I 
have  even  written  a  poem  about  such  trials. —  [He  softly  hums  through  his 
nose  to  the  tune  of  'One  evening  in  the  dreary  Fall'] 

'For  business  small  —  I  am  too  great; 
For  business  great  —  I  am  too  small.' 
Sonya  [seriously].     Don't  try  to  be  funny!     I  can  see  how  little  you 


42  SUMMER-FOLK 

feel  like  it.  —  Tell  me,  how  would  you  like  to  live? 

Vlass  [with  warmth].  Well!  Very  well!  I  would  like  to  live 
very  well ! 

Sony  a.     What  then  do  you  do  to  that  end? 

Vlass  [dolefully].     Nothing,  absolutely  nothing ! 

Marya  [calling  from  the  forest].     Sonya ! 

Sony  a.     I  am  here.     What  is  it? 

Marya.     Come  home.     You  have  company. 

Sonya.  I  am  coming.  [Marya  joins  them.]  I  put  this  clown  in 
your  care.     He  talks  nonsense  and  needs  to  be  lectured.      [She  runs  of.] 

Vlass  [meekly].  Begin!  Your  daughter  scolded  me  all  the  way 
from  the  station,  but  I  am  still  living.  — 

Marya  [gently].  My  dear  boy,  why  do  you  make  a  clown  of  your- 
self?    Why  value  yourself  so  little?     Who  cares?  — 

Vlass.  No  one,  you  say.  But  I  see  no  one  laughing,  and  I  want  them 
to  laugh.  [He  begins  to  talk  rapidly  and  earnestly.]  I  am  sick  at  heart, 
Marya  Lvovna,  —  I  am  sick  at  heart !  All  these  people  I  neither  love  nor 
respect!  They  are  pitiful  and  as  small  as  mosquitoes.  —  I  cannot  talk  to 
them  seriously  —  they  excite  in  me  a  morbid  desire  to  play  the  clown,  only 
more  openly  than  they  do.  —  My  head  is  full  of  nonsensical  stuff.  —  I  want 
to  scold,  to  groan,  to  complain.  —  I  believe  I'll  take  to  drink.  Among 
them,  I  can  only  live  as  they  do  —  and  this  distorts  me.  Their  vulgarity 
poisons  me!  There  they  are  —  coming  —  can  you  hear  them?  Some- 
times I  look  upon  them  with  loathing.  .  .  .  Come !  I  want  so  much 
to  talk  with  you. 

Marya  [takes  his  arm].  If  you  knew  how  pleased  I  am  to  see  you 
like  that! 

Vlass.     You  won't  believe  when  I  say  there  are  times  when  I  want  to 

say  something  harsh,  wicked,  offensive [They  go  into  the 

forest.     Shalimoff,  Yulia,  and  Varvara  enter  from  the  right.] 

Shal.  My !  Serious  conversation  again !  Spare  me !  I  am  too 
tired  to  be  serious!  I  don't  want  philosophy,  —  I've  had  enough  of  it! 
Let  me  vegetate,  strengthen  my  nerves.  —  I  want  to  walk,  to  court  the 
ladies.  — 

Yulia.  Can  you  court  ladies  without  disturbing  your  nerves?  That's 
quite  unique  !     Why  don't  you  court  me? 


MAXIM  GORKI  43 

Shal.      I  will  not  fail  to  take  advantage  of  your  amiable  permission. 

Yulia.      I  didn't  give  you  leave.      I  asked  you  why  you  didn't? 

Shal.  I  shall  still  consider  your  question  in  the  light  of  an  amiable 
permission. 

Yulia.     We'll  drop  that  subject.      Reply  truthfully  to  my  question ! 

Shal.  Very  well.  I  admit  the  possibility  of  friendship  with  a  woman, 
but  I  believe  it  to  be  unstable.  —  You  can't  deceive  Nature  ! 

Yulia.  In  other  words,  you  admit  friendship  only  as  a  prologue  to 
love. 

Shal.  Love !  I  look  upon  love  in  a  serious  light.  When  I  love  a 
woman  I  wish  to  raise  her  above  the  earth.  I  wish  to  adorn  her  life  with 
all  the  flowers  of  my  thought  and  feelings. 

Zam.     Yulia  Fillipovna,  you  are  wanted. 

Yulia.  I  am  coming.  Au  revoir,  Mr.  Gardener!  Put  your  hot- 
house in  order. 

[She  goes  towards  the  stage.] 

Shal.  Yes,  at  once.  —  Charming  and  so  bright! — Why  do  you  look 
at  me  so,  Varvara  Michailovna? 

Far.     Your  mustache  becomes  you  wonderfully. 

Shal.  [smiling].  Does  it?  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  You 
don't  like  my  manner  of  speech?  You  are  very  severe!  But,  then,  one 
can't  talk  to  her  differently  ! 

Far.      I  believe  I  am  losing  the  capacity  for  wonder. 

Shal.  I  understand  you  are  surprised  to  see  me  in  this  light?  Yes? 
But  one  can't  be  so  noisily  sincere  as  the  hysterical  Mr.  Rumin !  I  beg 
your  pardon.  —  I  believe  he  is  your  friend?  — 

Far.  [shakes  her  head  negatively].      I  have  no  friends. — 

Shal.  I  respect  my  inner  life  too  much  to  disclose  it  to  the  curious. 
The  Pythagoreans  communicated  their  secrets  to  the  elect  only.  — 

Far.     Now,  your  mustache  is  de  trop. 

Shal.  Never  mind  the  mustache.  You  know  the  proverb :  '  When 
you  live  with  wolves  you  must  howl  with  the  wolves.'  This  applies  espe- 
cially to  those  who  drink  the  bitter  cup  of  solitude —  It  seems  you  have  not 
enjoyed  it  enough,  and  you  can't  understand  a  man  who  —  but  I  dare  not 
detain  you  any  longer.  [He  bows  and  goes  towards  the  stage  where  the 
assembled  public  looks  on.     Zamysloff,  with  book  in  hand,  steals  across 


44  SUMMER-FOLK 

the  stage  to  show  Semionoff  how  to  act.     Bassoff,  with  the  fishing-rods, 
hastily  comes  from  the  house.] 

Bas.  Such  fishing!  Perfectly  wonderful!  The  doctor,  with  all  his 
nonchalance,  caught  one  at  once.  And  such  large  trout!  Uncle  caught 
three.  [Looks  about  carefully.]  Just  as  I  came  this  way,  fancy!  I  saw, 
near  the  pavilion,  by  the  pines,  Vlass  kneeling  before  Marya  Lvovna,  — 
kissing  her  hands!  What  do  you  think  of  that?  Tell  him,  dearest,  that 
he  is  but  a  boy !     She  is  old  enough  to  be  his  mother. 

Far.  [almost  whispering].  Listen,  Serguey!  Please  don't  mention 
this  to  any  one!  You  don't  understand!  You  have  misunderstood,  —  I 
am  afraid  you  will  tell  this  to  everybody,  —  and  it  would  be  wrong.  —  See? 

Bas.  Why  do  you  get  so  excited?  If  I  am  not  to  mention  it,  I  won't, 
and  that's  the  end  of  it.     But  if  this  isn't  idiotic !     And  Marya  Lvovna  ! 

Far.     Give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  forget  it.     Will  you  ? 

Bas.  Word  of  honor. — Well,  all  right.  Devil  take  them!  —  But 
will  you  explain  to  me?  — 

Far.  I  can  explain  nothing.  I  only  know  that  it  isn't  what  you 
think;  it  isn't  a  love  affair. 

Bas.  Is  that  so?  Not  a  love  affair!  What  is  it,  then?  Well, 
well,  don't  get  excited,  Varya.  —  I  am  off  to  fish.  —  I  haven't  seen  anything. 
Yes;  by  the  way,  let  me  tell  you  that  Yashka,  —  the  brute  ! 

Far.     What  else,  Serguey  !     What  else  ! 

Bas.  What's  the  matter  with  you  —  How  queerly  you  act?  This  is 
an  entirely  different  matter. 

Far.  Wait,  —  I  don't  want  to  hear  it,  —  understand  me!  I  don't 
wish  to,  Serguey! 

Bas.  [surprised] .  But  it  is  nothing,  you  crank !  What  ails  you  ? 
He  simply  means  to  sue  his  sister-in-law  for  the  land  that  belonged  to  his 
deceased  wife,  from  whom  he  was  — 

Far.     Pray,  say  no  more  !      Can't  you  understand?  —  Don't,  Serguey! 

Bas.  [of ended].  You  must  take  care  of  your  nerves,  Varya.  Excuse 
the  remark,  but  you  are  behaving  in  a  very  strange  way.  And  what's  more, 
you  offend  me!      [He  goes  off.] 

[Varvara  slowly  goes  towards  the  veranda.  Loud  laughter  and 
bustle  around  the  stage.] 

Zam.     Watchman!     Where  is  the  lantern? 


MAXIM  GORKI  45 

Yulia.     Where  is  my  part? 

Sem.  'Semionof,'  if  you  please. 

Yulia.     Let  me  pass ! 

Zam.  Attention,  please,  we  are  ready  to  begin! 

ACT  III 

A  meadow.  Beyond,  in  the  field,  under  the  trees,  around  a  rug,  on 
which  bottles  and  edibles  are  placed,  sit  Bassoff,  Colon,  Shalimoff, 
Sussloff,  Zamysloff;  to  the  right,  a  large  samovar;  by  its  side  Sasha 
washes  the  cups;  still  further,  Pustobaika  smokes  a  pipe;  opposite  lie  oars, 
baskets,  and  an  iron  tub;  nearer  the  front,  on  the  left,  a  haycock  and  a  large 
overturned  stump.  Kaleria,  Varvara,  and  Yulia  are  sitting  on  the  hay. 
Bassoff  is  the  center  of  a  group  of  men  to  whom  he  is  telling  a  story. 
On  the  right  is  heard  Sonya's  voice.  She  is  playing  an  accordion;  some 
one  else  plays  a  guitar.     Evening. 

Yulia.     Your  picnic  is  dull ! 

Kaleria.     Like  our  life. 

Varvara.     Men  are  always  jolly. 

Yulia.  They  drank  a  great  deal,  and  are  now  probably  telling  each 
other  improper  stories.  \_A  pause.  Sonya  :  '  Not  that  way !  Slower.' 
The  sounds  of  a  guitar.  Colon  laughs.]  I  had  a  glass,  too,  but  it  does 
not  cheer  me!  On  the  contrary,  when  I  drink  even  a  small  glass  —  I  grow 
more  serious.  Life  seems  less  attractive,  and  I  feel  like  doing  something 
impossible ! 

Kal.  [pensively].  Everything  is  tangled  —  blurred!  It  frightens 
me. 

Var.     What  frightens  you  ? 

Kal.     Men.     They  are  not  reliable.  —  I  don't  believe  in  anyone. 

Var.  Yes,  they  are  unreliable  —  I  understand  you.  [Bassoff  is 
mimicking  the  Armenian  accent.  '  Why  do  you  do  that,  my  dear  fellow  ? 
I  feel  finely.'     An  explosive  burst  of  laughter  from  the  men.'] 

Kal.  No,  you  don't  understand  me  .  .  .  and  I  don't  understand 
you,  —  and  no  one  understands  anyone.  — They  don't  wish  to  understand. 
Men  wander  like  icebergs  in  the  north  —  they  collide. — 

[Colon  rises  and  goes  to  the  right.     Yulia  sings  softly:     l  The  tired 


46  SUMMER-FOLK 

day  has  dipped  into  the  red  waters.'  When  Varvara  begins  to  speak, 
Yulia  stops,  and  looks  at  her  fixedly. ~\ 

Var.  Life  is  a  bazaar.  All  want  to  cheat,  to  give  less  and  take  more. 
[Yulia  resumes  singing  '  The  deep  blue  arch  of  sky  grows  darker  and  a 
light  shadow  falls  on  the  earth.'] 

Kal.     What  should  people  be,  so  that  we  shouldn't  be  tired  of  them? 

Far.     They  should  be  more  honest  and  more  enterprising. 

Kal.  They  must  be  daring,  Varya.  Anyway,  they  must  be  more 
positive  in  all  respects. 

Yulia.     Stop  talking !      It  isn't  entertaining !     Let's  sing. 

Var.     What  a  fine  duet  *  you  are  singing,  Yulia  Fillipovna. 


*  So  in  original. 

Yulia.  Yes,  I  think  so.  So  poetical !  I  love  everything  pure.  You 
don't  believe  me?  But  I  love  to  see  and  hear  everything  that  is  pure. 
[She  laughs. ,] 

Kal.  I  am  growing  desperate.  Despair  like  an  autumn  cloud  grows 
in  my  soul.  A  dark  cloud  of  despair  oppresses  me,  Varya.  I  love  no  one ! 
I  don't  wish  to  love.     I  shall  die  a  bona  fide  old  maid. 

Var.     Don't,  dear.     It's  so  depressing ! 

Yulia.  To  be  married  is  also  a  doubtful  pleasure.  In  your  place  I 
should  marry  Rumin.     He  is  rather  soured,  but  then.  — 

[Sonya's  voice  is  heard.  Wait  a  minute.  Now,  begin.  No,  the 
mandolin  begins  first.     A  duet  between  the  mandolin  and  the  guitar.'] 

Kal.     He  is  made  of  India  rubber. 

Var.  A  sad  song  haunts  me.  The  washerwomen  in  my  mother's 
establishment  sang  it.  I  was  a  very  young  schoolgirl,  then.  When  I  came 
home,  the  laundry  was  always  full  of  a  gray,  suffocating  steam  in  which 
half-clad  women  were  rocking  to  and  fro,  and  wearily  singing : 

'  Pity  me,  my  own  mother, 
Pity  me,  the  unfortunate  one ! 
Miserable  am  I  among  strangers; 
Pent  up  am  I  and  my  heart  is  withered.' 

And  I  cried  when  I  heard  this  song.  — 

[Bassoff's  voice  is  heard.  'Sasha/  Bring  some  beer  and  port 
wine.'] 


MAXIM  GORKI  47 

How  happy  I  was  then !  Those  women  loved  me.  I  remember  that  in  the 
evening,  after  the  work  was  done,  we  used  to  sit  around  and  drink  tea  at  a 
large,  clean  table.     I  sat  with  them  as  though  I  were  one  of  them. 

Kal.     You  are  despondent,  Varya,  you  moralize  like  Marya  Lvovna. 

Yulia.     My  dear  friends,  we  are  living  wrong. 

Var.  [thou glit fully].  Yes,  indeed;  and  we  don't  know  how  to  live 
any  better.  My  mother  worked  all  her  life.  She  was  kind  and  cheery. 
Everyone  loved  her.  She  educated  me.  How  she  rejoiced  when  I  grad- 
uated !  At  that  time  she  had  rheumatism  and  could  no  longer  work.  — 
Her  death  was  peaceful.  She  said,  '  Don't  cry,  Varya,  —  it's  nothing. 
It's  time  for  me  to  go.  I  have  lived,  and  worked  —  and  this  is  the  end.' 
Her  life  had  more  meaning  than  mine,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  live  as  I  do. 
It  is  as  if  I  were  in  a  strange  circle  —  surrounded  by  strangers  —  and  I  don't 
understand  their  life.  I  don't  understand  the  life  of  the  cultured  classes. 
It  seems  unstable,  hastily  made  to  last  only  a  little  while,  as  booths  are  built 
at  fairs.  —  This  life  is  like  the  ice  over  the  living  waves  of  a  river.  —  It  is 
strong  and  shining,  but  full  of  dirt,  —  full  of  much  that  is  low  and  bad.  — 
When  I  read  good,  earnest  books,  it  seems  to  me  as  though  the  warm  sun 
of  truth  were  rising.  —  The  ice  thaws,  exposing  the  mud  that's  in  it,  and  the 
waves  of  the  river  wash  it  off;  they  break  up  the  ice,  and  carry  it  off  some- 
where. — 

Kal.  [disgusted].  Why  don't  you  leave  your  husband  !  He  is  vulgar 
and  altogether  unnecessary  to  you.  —  [Varvara  looks  at  Kaleria  in  as- 
tonishment.] 

Kal.  [insisting].  Leave  him  and  go  off  somewhere.  You  ought  to 
study  —  fall  in  love  with  someone  —  only  you  should  go  away! 

Var.  [rising  angrily].     How  coarse  all  this  is  ! 

Kal.  You  should !  You  have  no  aversion  for  anything  that  is  low. 
You  like  washerwomen.     You  can  live  anyhow.  — 

Yulia.     You  talk  very  unfeelingly  about  your  brother. 

Kal  [quietly].  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  something  about  your 
husband? 

Yulia  [smiling].  Do!  I  want  to  be  offended.  I  very  often  tell  him 
things  that  anger  him.  He  pays  me  back  in  the  same  coin.  Quite  recently 
he  told  me  I  was  a  harlot. 

Var.     And  you !     What  did  you  do  ? 


48  SUMMER-FOLK 

Yulia.  I  didn't  reply.  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know  what  he  meant. 
I  am  not  curious.  I  only  have  a  great  curiosity  about  men.  [Varvara 
rises  and  takes  three  steps  aside. ,]  I  am  good-looking  —  that's  my  misfor- 
tune. Even  when  I  was  yet  in  the  Sixth  Grade  at  school  my  teachers  looked 
at  me  so  that  I  blushed  —  and  that  pleased  them ;  they  smiled  like  gourmands 
in  a  delicatessen  shop. 

Kal.     Brr !     How  low  ! 

Yulia.  Yes;  and  my  married  friends  educated  me.  But  I  owe  most 
to  my  husband.  He  distorted  my  imagination.  He  inoculated  me  with  a 
feeling  of  curiosity  toward  men.  [She  laughs.  Shalimoff  slowly  with- 
draws from  the  group  of  men,  and  comes  totvard  the  women.']  And  I 
spoiled  his  life !  The  proverb  says :  '  Having  taken  the  skin,  give  back 
the  string.' 

Shal.  [approaching].  A  fine  proverb,  and  invented  by  a  generous 
man.     Varvara  Michailovna,  don't  you  want  to  take  a  walk  to  the  river? 

Far.     Yes;  if  you  like. 

Shal.     Allow  me  to  give  you  my  arm. 

Far.     No,  thank  you.     I  don't  need  it. 

Shal.  How  sad  you  seem.  You  are  not  like  your  jolly  brother. 
[They  go  to  the  right.] 

Kal.  There  are  so  few  among  us  who  are  satisfied  with  life.  Now, 
you  are  always  pleasant,  and  yet  — 

Yulia.  How  do  you  like  this  gentleman?  To  me  there  is  something 
fiendish  about  him.  He  must  be  as  cold  as  a  frog.  —  Let's  go  to  the  river, 
too. 

Kal.     Yes,  let's. 

Yulia.  I  think  he's  somewhat  in  love  with  her.  She  really  is  a 
stranger  to  all  of  us,  and  she  looks  so  inquisitively  at  everyone.  What  does 
she  want  to  see?  I  don't  like  her.  I'm  afraid  of  her.  She  is  severe  and 
pure.  [They  go.  On  the  right  are  heard  loud  cries  and  laughter.  Voices: 
'A  boat!  Be  quick!  Where  are  the  oars?'  Pustabaika  rises  slowly, 
and  placing  the  oars  over  his  shoulder,  is  about  to  go.  Sussloff  and  Bas- 
SOFF  run  out  when  they  hear  the  voice.  Zamysloff  runs  up  to  Pusta- 
BAIKA  and  snatches  an  oar  from  him.] 

Zam.  Hurry!  The  deuce  take  you!  Do  you  hear?  It's  an  acci- 
dent, probably.     You  idiot!  —  [He  runs  off.] 


MAXIM  GORKI  49 

Pust.  [following  him,  grumbling].  If  it  were  an  accident,  they'd 
scream  louder.     He  wanted  to  be  a  hero.     Just  see  him  running ! 

[For  several  minutes  the  stage  remains  empty.  Voices:  'Don't 
throw  stones.  Hold  on!  Take  the  oar.'  Laughter.  From  the  left 
comes  Mary  A  Lvovna  with  Vlass.     Both  are  agitated.'] 

Mary  a  [with  suppressed  animation].  Do  you  hear?  I  won't  have 
it !     Don't  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  like  that.     What  right  have  I  given  you  ? 

Vlass.     I  will  speak !      I  will ! 

Mary  a  [putting  out  her  hands  as  though  to  push  Vlass  away].  I 
demand  respect. 

Vlass.  I  love  you!  I  love  you  —  with  all  my  soul!  I  love  your 
heart,  your  mind,  this  severe  lock  of  gray  hair!     Your  eyes,  your  voice  — 

Mary  a.     Silence  !     How  dare  you  ! 

Vlass.     I  can't  leave  —  I  need  you  as  I  do  air  or  fire. 

Mary  a.     Oh,  my  God!      Can't  you  spare  me  that?     Can't  you? 

Vlass  [clutching  his  head].  You  raised  me  in  my  own  estimation.  I 
wandered  in  the  twilight  without  road  or  aim.  You  taught  me  to  believe 
in  my  own  power.  — 

Mary  a.  Go  away!  Don't  torment  me,  my  dear  boy.  Don't  tor- 
ment me. 

Vlass  [falling  on  his  knees].  You  have  given  me  much,  but  it  is  not 
enough.  Be  generous!  I  want  to  believe  that  I  am  worthy  not  only  of 
your  regard,  but  of  your  love.     I  beseech  you,  don't  repel  me ! 

Mary  a.  No,  it's  I  who  beseech  you.  Go !  I  will  answer  you  later 
—  not  now.      Rise,  rise,  I  pray! 

Vlass.  Believe  me.  Your  love  is  necessary  to  me.  I  have  soiled 
my  heart  among  all  these  miserable  people.  I  need  a  fire  that  will  consume 
all  the  filth  and  rust  of  my  soul. 

Marya.  Show  some  respect  for  me.  I  am  an  old  woman.  You 
see  it.     You  must  go  away.     Go ! 

Vlass.     Very  well.     I  will  go.     But  you  will  always  believe  me  ? 

Marya.     Yes,  yes.     Always.     Go. 

[Vlass  goes  hurriedly  towards  the  forest  to  the  right.  He  collides 
with  his  sister.] 

Var.     Look  out !     What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Vlass.     Is  that  you  ?     Forgive  me ! 

4 


50  SUMMER-FOLK 

Mary  a  [extending  her  hands,  as  she  sees  Varvara].  Come  here, 
my  dear,  come! 

Far.     What's  the  matter  with  you?     Has  he  offended  you? 

Mary  a.  No.  —  I  mean  —  yes —  Did  you  say  '  offended '  ?  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know ! 

Far.     Sit  down What  has  happened? 

Mary  a.  He  told  me —  [laughs,  and  looks  absent-mindedly  into  Var- 
vara's  eyes']  — he  told  me  that  he  loved  me!  Me!  a  gray-haired  woman, 
with  false  teeth  —  three  false  teeth  !  I  am  an  old  woman,  my  dear !  Can't 
he  see  it?     M.y  daughter  is  eighteen.     It  is  impossible —     It's  useless. 

Far.  [agitated].  My  dear  one!  My  own  dear  one!  Calm  your- 
self.    Tell  me.  —  You  say  — 

Mary  a.  I  am  not.  —  I  am  just  like  the  rest !  I  am  a  poor  woman. 
Help  me.  —  He  should  not  come  near  me.  —  I  can't  do  it.     I  will  go  away ! 

Far.  I  understand.  You  pity  him  —  but  you  like  him.  Poor 
Vlasik ! 

Marya.     Ah,  I  am  lying  to  you!     I  don't  pity  him.     I  pity  myself! 

Far.  [quickly].     No.  —  Then  why  — 

[Sonya  issues  from  the  wood,  and  remains  several  minutes  behind  the 
haycock.  She  has  some  flowers  in  her  hands,  and  she  was  about  to  scatter 
them  over  her  mother  and  Varvara  when  she  heard  her  mother  speak. 
She  makes  a  motion  to  go  toward  her,  then,  turning,  she  softly  goes  away.] 

Marya.  I  love  him.  You  find  that  ridiculous?  But  I  do.  I  have 
gray  hair  —  still,  I  want  to  love.  I  am  like  a  starved  woman.  I  have  not 
lived  as  yet.  My  marriage  was  a  torture  that  lasted  three  years.  I  never 
loved  anyone.  Now,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  I  long  to  be  caressed!  I 
am  longing  for  a  strong  and  tender  caress!  I  know  it  is  too  late  —  too 
late.  I  beg  of  you,  dearest,  to  help  me.  Persuade  him  that  he  is  mistaken, 
that  he  does  not  love  me.     I  am  very  miserable !     I  have  suffered  so  much. 

Far.  Dear  one,  I  don't  understand  your  fear !  If  you  love  him,  and 
he  loves  you,  it  is  all  right.  If  you  fear  future  suffering,  perhaps  it  may 
yet  be  far  distant. 

Marya.  You  think  it  possible?  And  my  daughter?  My  Sonya? 
And  what  about  my  age  ?  My  cursed  age !  And  these  gray  hairs  ?  —  He 
is  very  young.  In  a  year  he  will  give  me  up.  No !  I  don't  want  that 
humiliation ! 


MAXIM  GORKI  51 

Var.  Why  weigh  all  this!  Why  calculate?  How  we  all  fear  to 
live!  What  does  it  mean,  pray  tell  me,  what  does  it  mean?  How  we 
pity  ourselves  !  —  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying.  —  Perhaps  this  is  wrong 
and  I  should  not  speak  thus  —  But  I  understand!  I  am  struggling  like  a 
fly  that  beats  against  the  glass.  I  long  for  liberty  —  and  I  suffer  for  you. 
I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  happy.  And  I  am  sorry  for  my  brother.  You 
could  be  so  good  to  him.  He  never  had  a  mother.  He,  too,  has  suffered 
much  humiliation  and  grief.     You  could  be  his  mother. 

Mary  a  [bowing  her  head].  A  mother!  Yes  —  only  a  mother.  I 
understand. 

Var.  [hastily].     No,  you  don't  understand.     I  did  not  say  — 

[Rumin  comes  out  of  the  wood  from  the  right.  He  sees  the  women, 
stops,  and  coughs.      They  do  not  hear  him.     He  comes  nearer.] 

Mary  a.  You  don't  want  to  say  it  —  but  it  is  said  [spontaneously  and 
simply].  I  must  be  a  mother  to  him,  a  friend.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  would  like 
to  cry.  I  shall  go.  Look,  yonder  stands  Rumin.  I  must  look  like  a  very 
foolish  old  woman !      [She  rises  and  slowly  goes  into  the  woods.] 

Far.     I  shall  go  with  you. 

Rumin  [quickly].  Varvara  Michailovna,  may  I  ask  you  to  remain? 
I  shall  not  detain  you  long. 

Var.  I  will  catch  up  with  you,  Marya  Lvovna.  Go  toward  the 
watchman's  hut.     What  do  you  want,  Pavel  Sergueyitch? 

Rumin  [looking  back].  I  will  tell  you  presently.  [He  looks  down, 
and  is  silent.] 

Var.     Why  are  you  looking  about  so  mysteriously?     What  is  it? 

[At  the  rear  of  the  stage  Sussloff  passes  from  right  to  left.  He 
hums.  Bassoff's  voice  is  heard,  saying,  '  Vlass,  didn't  you  want  to  read 
the  poetry?     Where  are  you  going?  '] 

Rumin.     I  —  I  will  tell  you.     You  have  known  me  for  a  long  time.  — 

Var.     Four  years.     But  what  is  the  matter  with  you? 

Rumin.  I  am  a  little  excited.  I  fear  —  I  haven't  the  courage  to  say 
the  words.     I  wish  that  you.  — 

Var.     I  don't  understand.     What  am  I  to  do  ? 

Rumin.     Yes  —  only  yes  ! 

Var.     What?     Speak  plainer. 

Rumin  [softly].     That  much  I  wished  to  tell  you  long  ago.     Now,  I 


52  SUMMER-FOLK 

understand.  [A  pause.  Varvara,  frowning,  looks  at  Rumin  sternly, 
and  slowly  walks  away  J] 

Far.  [involuntarily'].     What  a  queer  day ! 

Rumin  [in  a  suppressed  voice].  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  loved  you 
all  my  life  —  I  loved  you  before  I  knew  or  saw  you.  You  were  the  woman 
of  my  dream.  What  a  wonderful  apparition,  created  and  sought  through 
life.  —  Sometimes  it's  never  found.     I  met  you,  my  dream. — 

Far.  [calmly].  Pavel  Sergueyitch,  you  must  not  speak  so.  I  don't 
love  you. 

Rumin.     No,  perhaps  not.     But  let  me  say.  — 

Far.     Why?     What  for? 

Rumin.  What  shall  I  do!  What  shall  I  do!  [laughs  softly].  So 
all  is  at  an  end  —  and  so  simply  —  I  have  been  deciding  for  such  a  long 
time  to  say  this  to  you  —  I  feared  and  longed  for  the  hour  when  I  might 
tell  you  that  I  love  you,  and  now  I  have  said  it! 

Far.    But,  Pavel  Sergueyitch,  what  can  I  do? 

Rumin.  Yes,  yes.  Of  course,  I  understand.  Do  you  know  that  on 
you  and  your  opinion  of  me  I  built  all  my  hopes,  and  now  they  have  fled,  and 
life  is  ended,  too. 

Far.     Don't  say  that !     You  must  not  grieve  me.     Is  it  my  fault? 

Rumin.  How  this  hurts  me !  An  unkept  promise  weighs  on  me  and 
oppresses  me.  In  my  youth  I  swore  to  do  the  impossible  —  I  swore  to  con- 
secrate my  life  in  a  struggle  for  everything  that  seemed  good  and  honest. 
Now,  my  best  years  are  past,  and  I  have  done  nothing!  At  first  I  prepared, 
waiting,  attempting  —  and  imperceptibly  I  have  grown  accustomed  to  live 
calmly  and  quietly.  I  prized  this  calmness,  and  I  feared  to  disturb  it.  You 
see  how  sincerely  I  speak.  Don't  deprive  me  of  the  joy  of  being  sincere. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  there  is  a  sweetness  in  this  sorrow  —  this  confession. 

Far.     Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? 

Rumin.  I  don't  ask  for  love.  I  ask  for  pity.  Life  frightens  me  by 
the  insistence  of  its  demands,  and  I  avoid  them  so  carefully.  —  I  hide  my- 
self behind  the  screen  of  different  theories.  You  understand  this,  I  know. 
—  I  met  you,  and  in  my  heart  there  suddenly  bloomed  a  bright  and  beautiful 
hope  that  you  would  help  me  to  redeem  my  promise,  that  you  would  give 
me  strength,  and  the  desire  to  work  for  the  good  of  life. 

Far.  [with  annoyance,  and  sadly].  I  cannot  understand  it,  I  cannot. 
I  am  a  beggar  myself.     I,  too,  stand  before  life  in  a  maze  —  I  am  seeking 


MAXIM  GORKI  53 

some  sign  from  life,  and  don't  find  it.  Is  this  life?  Is  it  possible  to  live 
as  we  live?  The  soul  demands  a  bright  and  beautiful  life,  while  we  are  sur- 
rounded with  beastly  idleness.  I  am  disgusted,  I  am  ashamed  to  live  thus 
any  longer.  We  all  fear  something,  we  clutch  each  other  and  ask  for  help. 
We  groan  and  shriek. — 

Rumin.  I,  too,  ask  help.  I  am  a  weak  and  vacillating  man,  but  if 
you  only  would !  — 

Far.  [passionately].  It  is  a  lie !  I  don't  believe  you.  These  are 
only  pitiful  appeals.  I  cannot  put  my  heart  into  you,  even  if  I  am  strong! 
I  don't  believe  there  is  a  force  somewhere  which  exists  outside  of  man  and 
which  can  make  him  brave.  It  is  either  in  him  or  it  does  not  exist  at  all ! 
I  will  say  no  more.  —  An  enmity  rises  in  my  soul. 

Rumin.     Toward  me?     Why? 

Far.  Oh,  not  toward  you  —  toward  everybody.  We  live  here 
strangers  to  all.  —  We  don't  know  how  to  be  necessary  to  men,  and  I  believe 
that  soon,  perhaps  tomorrow,  other  men  will  come,  stronger  and  bolder, 
and  will  sweep  us  off  from  the  face  of  the  earth  like  dust.  The  enmity  to 
deceit  and  lies  rises  in  my  soul. 

Rumin.  But  I  want  to  be  deceived!  Indeed  I  do,  now  that  I  know 
the  truth  —  I  have  nothing  to  live  for. 

Far.  [with  aversion].  Don't  bare  your  soul  before  me!  I  pity  a 
beggar  if  he  is  a  man  that  has  been  robbed,  but  if  he  has  lost  all  he  had,  or 
was  born  a  beggar,  I  don't  pity  him. 

Rumin  [offended].  Don't  be  so  cruel.  You  are  wounded,  too,  your- 
self. 

Far.  [energetically,  almost  with  disdain].  Yes,  a  wounded  man  is  not 
a  sick  man.  It  is  only  his  body  that  has  been  bruised.  Only  he  is  ill  who 
is  poisoned. 

Rumin.     Spare  me.       Remember  I  am  still  a  man. 

Far.  And  I,  am  I  not  a  human  being,  too?  Am  I  only  something 
you  need,  so  that  you  could  live  better?  Is  that  it?  And  isn't  it  cruel? 
I  see.  I  know !  You  were  not  the  only  man  who  swore  in  his  youth. 
There  are  thousands  who  have  broken  their  oaths ! 

Rumin  [beside  himself].  Good-bye.  I  understand.  I  was  too  late. 
Yes,  of  course.  Only  remember,  Shalimoff,  too  —  look  at  him  —  look  at 
him  — 


54  SUMMER-FOLK 

Far.  [coldly].     Shalimoff?     You  have  no  right 

Rumin.     Good-bye.     I  can't  endure  this  any  longer.     Good-bye. 

[He  goes  quickly  into  the  woods  on  the  left.  Varvara  starts  as 
though  to  follow  him,  but  shakes  her  head  negatively,  and  seats  herself  on 
the  stump.  At  the  rear  of  the  stage,  by  the  carpet  with  the  lunch,  appears 
Sussloff,  who  pours  out  some  wine  and  drinks  it.  Varvara  rises  and 
goes  into  the  woods,  to  the  left.  Rumin  from  the  right  enters  quickly, 
looks  about,  and  with  a  gesture  of  annoyance,  sits  down  on  the  haycock. 
Sussloff,  who  is  somewhat  tipsy,  approaches,  whistling.~\ 

Sus.     Did  you  hear? 

Rumin.     What? 

Sus.  [seating  himself].     The  dispute. 

Rumin.     No.     What  dispute? 

Sus.  [lighting  a  cigarette].  The  dispute  of  Vlass  with  the  writer  and 
Zamysloff. 

Rumin.     No. 

Sus.     I'm  sorry. 

Rumin.     Don't  set  the  hay  on  fire ! 

Sus.  Devil  take  the  hay!  —  Yes,  they  had  a  dispute,  but  it's  only 
gymnastics.  I  was  a  philosopher  myself  once  upon  a  time.  I  said  all  the 
fashionable  words,  and  I  know  their  value  —  'conservatism,'  'intellectual- 
ity,' 'democracy'  —  what  else?  All  this  is  dead!  It's  all  a  lie!  In  the 
first  place  a  man  is  a  zoological  type,  that's  a  fact.  You  know  that  your- 
self. No  matter  how  many  gymnastic  exercises  you  go  through,  you  can't 
hide  the  fact  that  you  want  to  eat  and  drink  —  and  enjoy  a  woman.  —  This 

is  all  truth Yes,  when  Shalimoff  talks,  I  understand:  he  is 

a  writer;  the  game  of  words  is  his  business.  And  when  Vlass  talks,  I 
understand  also:  he  is  young  and  foolish.  —  But  when  Zamysloff  talks,  the 
rascal,  the  carnivorous  animal !  I  should  like  to  stop  his  throat  with  my  fist. 
Do  you  hear?  He  has  got  Bassoff  into  a  predicament!  It's  a  dirty  story. 
They'll  get  about  50,000,  —  Bassoff  and  this  rascal!  Yes.  But  after- 
wards no  one  will  call  them  respectable !  And  that  proud  Varvara,  who 
still  hesitates  to  choose  a  lover. 

Rumin.     You  talk  basely.      [He  hurries  of.] 

Sus.  Idiot!  Jelly-fish!  [From  the  right  appears  PusTABAlKA. 
He  takes  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  looks  at  Sussloff.] 


MAXIM  GORKI  55 

Sus.     Well,  what  are  you  glaring  at? 

Pust.     I'm  off.      [He  slowly  departs.] 

Sus.  'All  humanity  on  earth.' — [He  coughs.]  You  are  all  latent 
rascals.  —  'Men  die  for  money.'  That  is  all  bosh  —  money  is  nothing  — 
when  you  have  it.  — [He  dozes.]  The  fear  of  one's  neighbors'  opinion  is 
something.  —  If  a  man  is  sober  —  but  I  say,  you  are  all  rascals  in  your 
hearts.  —  [He  drops  off  to  sleep.  Dudakoff  and  Olga  slowly  walk  in, 
arm  in  arm.     She  leans  on  his  shoulder,  looking  up.] 

Dud.  Certainly,  we  are  both  right.  We  whirled,  we  bustled,  and 
lost  all  regard  for  each  other.  And  why  should  you  respect  me?  What 
am  I? 

Olga.  My  dear  Kyrill  —  you  are  the  father  of  my  children.  I  re- 
spect and  love  you. 

Dud.  I  am  weary,  and  I  let  myself  go.  I  can't  control  my  nerves  — 
and  you  take  everything  so  much  to  heart.  In  this  way  an  impossible  situa- 
tion is  created. 

Olga.  You  are  all  I  have  in  the  world  —  you  and  our  children.  I 
have  no  one  else. 

Dud.  Remember,  Olga, — you  and  I  once  dreamed  of  a  different 
life.  [Yulia  and  Zamysloff  appear  behind  the  trees  on  the  left.]  Isn't 
that  so? 

Olga.  But  what  can  we  do ?  What  can  we  do?  We  have  children. 
They  demand  our  attention. 

Dud.  Yes.  I  understand  —  children.  But  one  doubts,  some- 
times — 

Olga.     What  shall  we  do,  then,  dear?     [They  go  into  the  woods.] 

Yulia  [coming  out  of  the  woods,  laughing].  So  pompous!  and  so 
touching !     What  a  lesson  for  me ! 

Zam.  Is  this  the  prologue  to  the  fifth  or  sixth  child?  Well,  my 
dear  Yulia,  I  shall  expect  you. 

Yulia  [with  a  sneer].  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that  —  If  we  are  so  loving 
—  shouldn't  I,  too,  return  to  the  path  of  virtue,  duckie? 

Zam.     That  will  follow,  Yulia. 

Yulia.  Yes,  that  will  follow.  I  have  decided  to  remain  in  the  path 
of  vice,  and  my  summer  romance  will  die  a  natural  death.  —  What  were 
you  disputing  about  with  Vlass  and  the  author? 


56  SUMMER-FOLK 

Zam.     Vlass  was  like  a  lunatic  today.     We  talked  about  religion.  — 

Yulia.     And  what  do  you  believe? 

Zam.  I?  I  believe  in  myself,  Yulia.  I  believe  only  in  my  right  to 
live  as  I  choose. 

Yulia.     I  believe  nothing. 

Zam.  My  past  is  a  starving  childhood,  —  my  youth  likewise,  —  full 
of  humiliations.  I  had  a  sad  past,  my  dear  Yulia.  I  have  seen  much  that 
is  bad  and  painful.  I  have  suffered  much.  Now,  I  am  master,  and  lord 
of  my  life.  That's  all  there  is  to  it.  I  am  going  now.  Au  revoir,  my 
joy.     We  must  still  be  quite  careful  and  keep  away  from  each  other. 

Yulia  [with  pathos].  Near  or  far,  is  it  not  all  the  same,  O  knight? 
Whom  shall  we  fear  when  we  love  so  passionately? 

Zam.     I  despair,  O  thou,  my  luxury ! 

[He  goes  into  the  woods.  Yulia  looks  after  him,  then  about  the 
meadow,  and  gives  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  goes  toward  the  haycock,  singing: 
'  Be  calm,  thou  soul  tormented  by  sadness ! '  She  sees  her  husband,  pauses 
and  for  several  moments  stands  motionless,  looking  at  him.  She  wants  to 
go,  but  returns,  and,  with  a  smile,  seats  herself  beside  him.  She  tickles  his 
face  with  a  wisp  of  grass.     Sussloff  grunts.'] 

Yulia.     How  musical ! 

Sus.     What  the  devil  is  it!     Oh,  it's  you? 

Yulia.  How  you  reek  of  wine!  A  whole  haycock  cannot  drown  it. 
You  will  fail  through  drinking  expensive  wine,  my  friend ! 

Sus.  [stretching  out  his  hands].  You  so  near?  —  I  forget,  Yulia, 
when  all  this  happened. 

Yulia.  It  is  useless  to  remember  the  happy  moment,  my  friend.  — 
Listen.     Do  you  want  to  please  me  ? 

Sus.  What  shall  I  do?  I  am  ready.  Believe  me,  Yulia,  I  am  ready 
to  do  everything  for  you. 

Yulia.     That  is  just  how  a  loving  husband  should  be. 

Sus.  [kissing  her  hand].     Tell  me,  what  do  you  wish? 

Yulia  [taking  out  a  small  revolver  from  her  pocket].  Let's  shoot 
each  other,  first  you  and  then  I. 

Sus.  This  is  a  poor  joke,  Yulia !  Throw  away  that  horrible  thing,  I 
beg  of  you.     Throw  it  away ! 

Yulia.     Wait  a  moment.     Take  your  hand  away.     My  proposition 


MAXIM  GORKI  57 

does  not  please  you?  But  didn't  you  once  mean  to  shoot  me?  I  would 
shoot  myself  first  but  that  I  fear  you  will  deceive  me  and  live  —  and  I  don't 
care  to  be  deceived  by  you  another  time,  nor  to  part  from  you.  I  will  live 
a  long,  long  time.     Are  you  glad? 

Sus.  [dejectedly].     Listen,  Yulia,  we  can't  go  on  like  this. 

Yulia.  Yes,  we  can.  Don't  you  see  ?  Now,  do  you  wish  me  to  shoot 
you? 

Sus.  [covering  his  face  with  his  hands'].  Don't  look  at  me  like  that. 
Devil  take  it !     I  will  go  away  !     I  can't  stand  this. 

Yulia  [merrily].  Go!  —  I  will  shoot  you  in  the  back.  No,  I  can't, 
for  here  come  Marya  Lvovna.  She  is  a  good  woman !  Why  don't  you 
fall  in  love  with  her,  Piotr?     She  has  beautiful  hair! 

Sus.  [in  a  suppressed  voice].  You  drive  me  crazy!  What  have  I 
done  ?     Why  do  you  hate  me  ? 

Yulia  [with  disdain].     I  can't  hate  you. 

Sus.  [breathlessly].  You  torture  me.  Why?  Say!  [Marya 
Lvovna  walks  by,  wrapt  in  thought,  stooping,  and  with  her  head  bowed. 
Sussloff  stands  in  front  of  his  wife  without  removing  his  eyes  from  the 
revolver  in  her  hand.] 

Yulia.  Come  here,  Marya  Lvovna.  Piotr,  you  have  made  me  a  vile 
woman.     Go  !     Go  !      Marya  Lvovna,  how  soon  are  we  going  home? 

Marya.  I  don't  know.  They  have  all  gone  somewhere.  Haven't 
you  seen  Varvara  Michailovna? 

Yulia.  She  is  probably  with  someone  else.  I  believe  you  wanted  to 
go  to  the  river.  —  Go,  I  shan't  miss  you.     [Sussloff  leaves  silently.] 

Marya  [absent-mindedly].     How  stern  you  are! 

Yulia.  A  good  thing.  A  philosopher,  I  am  told,  gives  this  advice: 
When  you  approach  a  woman,  take  a  whip  along. 

Marya.     That's  Nietsche? 

Yulia.  Yes,  I  believe  he  was  a  little  off.  I  don't  know  any  philoso- 
phers that  are  entirely  sane.  But  if  I  were  a  philosopher,  I  should  say  to  a 
woman,  '  When  you  approach  a  man,  my  dear,  take  a  heavy  stick.'  [From 
the  left  at  the  end  of  the  field  come  Olga  and  Kaleria.  They  sit  down 
near  the  carpet  with  the  refreshments.]  I  was  told  that  one  of  the  savage 
tribes  has  the  following  charming  custom:  A  man,  before  he  plucks  the 
flowers  of  pleasure,  strikes  the  woman  on  her  head  with  a  stick.     We  civi- 


58  SUMMER-FOLK 

lized  people  do  this  after  marriage.    Has  no  one  struck  you  on  the  head? 

Marya.     Yes. 

Yulia  [with  a  smiie~\.  Savages  are  more  honest.  Don't  you  think 
so  ?     Why  do  you  look  so  gloomy  ? 

Marya.  Don't  ask.  Is  not  life  hard  to  you?  [Colon  appears  with- 
out a  hat,  holding  a  fishing-rod.~\ 

Yulia  [laughing'].  Who  has  ever  heard  me  groan?  I  am  always 
jolly  —  There  comes  uncle  —  Do  you  like  him?     I  do,  very  much. 

Marya.     Yes,  he  is  an  excellent  man. 

Colon  [approaching'].  My  hat  swam  away.  The  young  people 
started  to  save  it,  and  drowned  it  definitely.  Hasn't  anybody  a  spare  hand- 
kerchief for  my  head?  because  the  mosquitoes  bite  my  bald  spot. 

Yulia  [rising].  Wait  a  moment,  I  will  get  you  one.  [She  goes  to 
the  rear  of  the  stage.] 

Colon.  Mr.  Chernoff  has  been  amusing  the  folks —  He  is  a  good 
boy. 

Marya.     Is  he  jolly? 

Colon.  Very.  He  simply  sparkles.  He  read  us  his  poetry.  A 
lady  asked  him  to  write  some  verses  in  her  album.  He  wrote  at  once. 
Says  he,  '  You  looked  into  my  eyes  with  a  smile,  but  your  glance  missed  and 
fell  into  my  heart.'  Says  he,  it  is  two  weeks  since  I  hoped,  madam.  —  You 
understand  —  and  then  — 

Marya  [hastily].  Don't,  Semion  Semionitch.  Don't  say  any  more. 
I  know  those  verses.     Tell  me,  are  you  going  to  stay  here  for  some  time  ? 

Colon.  Well,  I  thought  I  could  live  with  my  nephew  until  the  end  of 
my  days,  but  I  don't  see  any  wish  on  his  part  to  strengthen  me  in  this  inten- 
tion. I  have  no  other  place  to  go.  I  have  no  one.  I  have  money  and 
nothing  else. 

Marya  [looking  at  him  absent-mindedly].     You  are  rich,  then? 

Solon.  Yes,  I  am  worth  nearly  a  million.  [Sighs.]  Nearly  a  mil- 
lion. When  I  die,  Piotr  will  have  it  all,  but  evidently  that  does  not  make 
any  impression  on  him.  He  doesn't  seem  to  care  for  me.  He  seems  to 
be  a  man  that  does  not  wish  for  anything.  He  wants  nothing.  I  under- 
stand him.  I  suppose  he  knows  the  money  will  be  his  anyway.  Why 
should  he  borrow  trouble?      [Sighs  again.] 

Marya  [with  more  interest].     You  poor  man !     You  should  use  it  for 


MAXIM  GORKI  59 

some  public  charity.     That  would  be  more  sensible. 

Colon.  Yes,  that  is  what  a  fellow  advised  me  once,  but  I  didn't  like 
him.  He  was  a  red-haired  rascal.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  sorry  to  leave 
the  money  to  Piotr.  What  will  he  do  with  it?  As  it  is,  he  is  quite  self- 
sufficient.  [Marya  laughs.  Colon  looks  at  her  attentively.']  Why  do 
you  laugh?  Do  I  seem  silly?  I  am  no  fool  .  .  .  only  I  am  unac- 
customed to  living  alone.  Dear,  dear!  I  sigh  and  groan,  thinking  about 
one  thing,  and  when  I  go  on  thinking  I  am  sorry  for  everybody.  You  are 
a  good  woman.     Let  me  tell  you!      [He  laughs.] 

Marya.     Thank  you. 

Colon.  You  are  welcome.  I  thank  you.  You  called  me  a  poor  man. 
I  never  heard  that  before.  Everybody  calls  me  rich.  I  thought  I  was 
rich,  and  now  it  seems  I  am  poor. 

Yulia  [walking  toward  them  with  a  handkerchief  in  her  hand].  Are 
you  making  a  declaration  of  love,  uncle? 

Colon.  No,  I  am  too  old  for  that.  I  can  only  express  my  regards 
now.  —  Tie  the  handkerchief  as  well  as  you  can.  Now  I'll  eat  something 
before  I  go. 

Yulia.     There,  that  is  very  becoming  to  you  ! 

Colon.  Now  you  are  telling  a  whopper.  I  have  a  manly  face.  Let's 
go  and  take  a  bite.  I  wanted  to  ask  you.  —  You  don't  love  your  husband, 
do  you? 

Yulia.     Do  you  think  I  can  love  him  ? 

Colon.     Then,  why  did  you  marry  him? 

Yulia.     He  pretended  to  be  interesting ! 

Colon  [laughing].  Oh,  get  out!  [They  go  to  the  rear  of  the  stage. 
Great  commotion  and  laughter  are  heard.  From  the  left  appear  Bassoff, 
somewhat  under  the  influence  of  liquor,  SHALIMOFF,  DuDAKOFF,  and 
Vlass.  Vlass  goes  to  the  rear  while  the  other  three  seat  themselves  on  the 
hay.] 

Zam.  [calling  in  the  zvoods].     Folks,  it's  time  to  go  home! 

Bas.  It's  very  beautiful  about  here,  Yasha !  We  had  a  fine  walk, 
didn't  we? 

Shal.  You  sat  still  all  the  time  like  an  owl.  You  sat  and  drank,  and 
now  you  are  not  fit  for  much.  [In  the  rear  of  the  stage  Sonya  if  tying  the 
handkerchief  on  Colon's  head.     Laughter.     Zamysloff  comes  from  the 


60  SUMMER-FOLK 

woods,  and  goes  towards  the  rug  where  the  refreshments  are,  takes  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  a  tumbler,  and  approaches  Bassoff.  He  is  followed  by 
Colon,  who  waves  Sonya  away.] 

Bas.  [throwing  himself  on  the  hay~\.  I'll  sit  down.  .  .  .  One 
must  be  seated  to  admire  nature  —  nature,  the  woods,  the  trees,  the  hay  — 
I  love  nature.  [Then  in  a  sad  tone.]  I  love  men,  too  —  I  love  my  poor, 
immense,  absurd  country  —  my  Russia!  —  I  love  everything  and  everybody 
—  My  heart  is  as  tender  as  a  peach  —  Yakov,  you  may  use  that  expression. 
It  is  a  good  comparison     .     .     .     My  heart  is  as  tender  as  a  peach ! 

Shah     All  right,  I'll  use  it. 

Sonya.     Now,  Semion  Semionitch,  allow  me ! 

Colon.  What  are  you  going  to  do?  You  have  had  enough  fun  with 
the  old  man.     Now  I  am  offended.      [He  sighs.~\ 

Bas.  Ah,  will  some  one  pour  me  out  some  wine?  It's  good  wine! 
This  is  jolly,  my  dear  fellows!  Life  is  a  glorious  occupation  for  him  who 
looks  at  it  in  a  friendly  and  simple  way  —  confidently,  with  simple,  child- 
like eyes.  Then  all  is  well.  [Colon  stands  opposite  the  stump  and  laughs, 
listening  to  Bassoff's  chatter.']  Oh,  Lord!  Let  us  look  with  bright, 
child-like  eyes  into  one  another's  hearts.  Then  all  will  be  well.  —  Uncle 
is  laughing.  He  caught  a  lovely  young  trout,  and  I  took  it  and  put  it  back 
into  its  native  element,  because  I  am  a  pantheist  —  that's  a  fact  —  and  I 
love  trout,  too  !     But  uncle's  hat  is  drowned  —  There  you  are! 

Shal.      You  talk  too  much,  Serguey. 

Bas.  Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged.  I  don't  talk  any  worse  than 
you  do.  You  are  eloquent  —  I  am  eloquent,  too.  Hark,  I  hear  the  voice 
of  Marya  Lvovna.  She  is  an  excellent  woman,  worthy  of  the  deepest  re- 
gard. 

Shal.  No,  I  don't  like  that  mitrailleuse.  ...  I  am  generally  an 
admirer  of  women  who  are  not  worthy  of  regard. 

Bas.  Nothing  truer !  The  women  who  are  unworthy  of  regard  are 
better  than  the  worthy  ones.     They  are  better,  that's  a  fact ! 

Colon.  No  doubt  about  it!  You  who  have  married  a  queen,  so  to 
speak  — 

Bas.  You  mean  my  wife,  Varya?  Oh,  she  is  a  puritan  —  a  wonder- 
ful woman  —  a  saint  —  but  it's  dull  music.  She  reads  a  great  deal,  and 
always  speaks  as  though  she  were  quoting  an  apostle.  Let's  drink  her 
health. 


MAXIM  GORKI  61 

Shal.     Your  conclusion  is  quite  unexpected.    Still,  Marya  Lvovna  is  — 
Bas.    [interrupting].     You  know  she  had  quite  a   romantic  episode 
with  my  assistant?     That's  a  fact!     I  saw  him  declaring  his  love  to  her! 
Colon.     Hm !      Perhaps  that  had  better  not  be  spoken  of.      [He  goes 

Bas.     Oh,  by  the  way,  that  is  a  secret ! 

Kal.  [approaching] .     Serguey,  have  you  seen  Varya  ? 

Bas.  Ah,  here  is  my  sister,  the  poetess.  Yakov,  has  she  read  her 
poetry  to  you?  You  should  hear  it.  It  is  quite  charming.  Everything 
so  lofty  —  clouds,  mountains,  stars. 

Kal.     I  think  you  have  had  too  much  to  drink. 

Bas.     Only  one  glass. 

Zam.     From  this  bottle? 

Shal.     Your  poetical  essays  appeal  to  me  very  much. 

Kal.  If  I  were  to  take  you  at  your  word,  I  should  bring  you  four 
very  thick  note-books. 

Shal.     Don't  frighten  me.     I  am  timid ! 

Kal.     That  remains  to  be  seen. 

Yiilia  [singing  in  the  woods] .     It  is  time  to  go  home,  time  to  go ! 

Kal.  Yes,  we  are  all  tired.  [Kaleria  goes  to  the  right,  and  meets 
Sonya.  Zamysloff  goes  to  the  side,  where  he  hears  the  voice  of  Yulia. 
Bassoff  winks  at  him,  and  bending  tozvard  Shalimoff,  he  whispers  in  his 
ear.     Shalimoff  listens  and  laughs.] 

Kal.  When  I  go  out  I  always  carry  with  me  a  vague  hope,  but  when 
I  return,  I  return  alone.  —  Does  that  ever  happen  to  you? 

Sonya.     No. 

Kal     It  will. 

Sonya  [laughing].     I  believe  you  like  to  say  sad  things. 

Kal.  You  think  so?  I  should  like  to  veil  your  eyes  with  the  tremu- 
lous shadow  of  thought.  I  often  see  uncouth  men  beside  you,  and  I  am  sur- 
prised at  your  temerity  in  facing  the  filth  of  life.  Aren't  you  disgusted 
with  them? 

Sonya  [laughing].  The  filth  is  only  superficial.  It  is  easily  washed 
off  with  soap.      [They  go  to  the  rear,  talking.] 

Shal.  [rising] .  You  have  a  sharp  tongue,  Serguey.  —  Look,  there  is 
the  husband  himself ! 


62  SUMMER-FOLK 

Bas.     Who  ?     I  ? 

Shal.  Nature  is  beautiful,  but  why  do  mosquitoes  exist?  I  left  my 
plaid  somewhere  about  here.  [He  goes  to  the  right.  Bassoff  stretches 
himself  out  and  hums.  In  the  rear  Sasha,  Sonya,  and  Pustobaika  are 
covering  up  things.  On  the  left,  near  the  haycock,  Varvara  stands  with 
a  hunch  of  flowers. ] 

Vlass  [from  the  woods'].     Who  is  going  in  the  boat? 

Bas.  Varya,  are  you  taking  a  walk?  I  am  here  alone.  They  have 
all  gone  off. 

Far.     You've  had  too  much,  Serguey. 

Bas.     Do  you  — 

Var.     Cognac  is  bad  for  you.     You  will  complain  of  your  heart,  next. 

Bas.  No,  I  drank  port  wine  mostly —  Don't  find  fault  with  me, 
Varya.  You  always  talk  so  harshly,  so  severely  to  me,  and  I  —  I  am  a 
kind-hearted  fellow.  I  love  everybody  with  the  love  of  a  child.  Sit  down 
beside  me,  my  darling —     Let  us  open  our  hearts  to  each  other  —  We  must. 

Var.  Don't.  They  are  all  getting  ready  to  go  home.  Get  up  and 
go  to  the  boat.     Come,  Serguey. 

Bas.  All  right  —  Where  shall  I  go?  —  I  am  coming.  [He  tries  to 
walk  steadily.  Varvara  looks  at  him  with  a  set  face.  Looking  to  the 
right  she  sees  Shalimoff,  who  approaches  her  with  a  smile.] 

Shal.     You  look  tired.     Your  eyes  are  sad.     Are  you  tired? 

Var.     Yes,  a  little. 

Shal.  I  am  very  tired,  too.  I  am  tired  of  looking  at  these  people, 
and  it  grieves  me  to  see  you  among  them.     Forgive  me ! 

Var.     For  what? 

Shal.  I  look  at  you  as  you  walk  silently  in  this  noisy  crowd,  while 
your  eyes  mutely  question  —  and  to  me  your  silence  is  more  eloquent  than 
words.     I,  too,  have  felt  the  cold  and  weight  of  loneliness. 

Sonya  [calling].     Mamma,  are  you  in  the  boat? 

Marya  [from  the  woods].     No,  I  am  going  to  walk. 

Var.  [handing  a  flower  to  Shalimoff].     Do  you  want  it? 

Shal.  [with  a  how  and  a  smile].  I  thank  you.  I  save  flowers  reli- 
giously when  they  are  given  to  me  in  such  a  simple  and  friendly  manner. 
[Vlass,  in  the  woods  on  the  right:  'Holloa,  watchman,  where  is  the  sec- 
ond pair  of  oars?']     Your  flower  shall  be  placed  in  one  of  my  books. 


MAXIM  GORKI  63 

Some  time  I  will  take  it  up,  see  the  flower,  and  think  of  you.  Is  that  ridicu- 
lous, or  sentimental? 

Var.  [in  an  undertone,  looking  down].     Go  on. 

Shal.  [looking  questioningly  into  her  face].  You  must  feel  sad  among 
all  these  men  who  unfortunately  do  not  know  how  to  live. 

Var.     Teach  them  to  live  better. 

Shal.  I  lack  the  confidence  of  a  teacher.  I  am  a  stranger,  a  lonely 
observer  of  life.  I  don't  know  how  to  talk  eloquently,  and  my  words  will 
not  inspire  courage  in  these  people.     What  are  you  thinking  about? 

Var.  I  have  similar  thoughts.  They  keep  me  from  people.  They 
should  be  stifled  at  their  birth. 

Shal.  Then  your  soul  will  be  a  cemetery.  No,  one  ought  to  fear  to 
withdraw  into  one's  self.  Believe  me,  away  from  them  the  air  is  purer  and 
clearer.     Everything  seems  more  distinct. 

Var.  I  understand  you  —  and  am  pained  as  though  some  dear  one 
were  dying.      [A  noise  on  the  right.] 

Shal.  [without  listening].  If  you  but  knew  how  sincerely  I  spoke  just 
now.  You  may  not  believe  me,  perhaps,  but  still  I  will  say  to  you,  I  long 
to  be  sincerer,  better,  and  wiser. 

Var.     I  thank  you. 

Shal.  [kissing  her  hand  with  agitation].  I  think  when  I  stand  beside 
you  that  I  am  standing  on  the  threshold  of  an  unknown  happiness  as  deep 
as  the  sea,  that  you  possess  a  magic  power  which  you  could  transmit  to  an- 
other as  a  magnet  attracts  iron,  —  and  a  bold,  foolish  thought  rises  in  my 
mind — I  think  that  if  you — [He  interrupts  himself,  looking  around. 
Varvara  follows  his  motion.] 

Var.     What  if  I  —  I  — 

Shal.  Varvara  Michailovna,  you  won't  laugh  at  me?  Do  you  want 
me  to  say  it? 

Var.     No.     I  understand.     You  are  not  a  clever  tempter. 

Shal.  [confused].     No,  you  misunderstand  me  —  you  — 

Var.  [simply,  gently,  and  sadly].  How  I  loved  you  when  I  read  your 
books !  How  I  awaited  you !  You  seemed  to  me  so  bright,  so  intuitive. 
Such  you  appeared  to  me  when  you  read  one  evening.  I  was  only  seventeen 
then,  and  since  that  time  your  image  has  lived  in  my  memory  like  a  bright 
star. 

Shal.  [looking  down,  in  a  whisper].     Don't,  don't.     I  apologize. 


64  SUMMER-FOLK 

Far.  I  was  suffocated  with  commonplace.  —  I  imagined  you  to  be  — 
and  I  felt  happier  —  I  had  some  hope. 

Shal.     You  ought  to  be  zealous.     You  should  understand. 

Far.  You  came,  and  you  are  like  the  rest  —  like  the  rest.  This  is 
so  sad.  Tell  me,  what  happened  to  you  ?  Is  it  impossible  to  keep  your  soul 
intact? 

Shal.  [excitedly].  But  why  should  you  apply  to  me  standards  differ- 
ent from  those  you  apply  to  others?  You  all  live  as  you  please.  Why 
should  I,  an  author,  live  as  you  wish  me  to  live? 

Far.  No,  no,  don't  say  that!  Don't.  Throw  away  the  flower  I 
gave  you.  I  gave  it  to  you  as  I  knew  you  formerly,  one  of  whom  I  thought 
better  things,  one  more  ideal.  Throw  away  my  flower.  [She  hurries 
away.~\ 

Shal.  [looking  after  her'].  Devil  take  it!  [Crushes  the  flower.] 
Serpent !  [He  nervously  voipes  his  lips  zvith  his  handkerchief  and  follows 
Varvara.     Dudakoff  and  Olga  come  out  of  the  woods  on  the  left.] 

Zam.  [singing  in  the  woods].     'O  night,  cover'  — 

Yulia  [echoes  him].     'With  thy  transparent  veil.' 

Flass  [in  the  woods].     Do  sit  down. 

Dud.     Here  we  are.     Just  on  time. 

Olga.     I  am  so  tired.  —  My  dear  Kyrill,  you  must  not  forget  this  day. 

Dud.  And  you  —  Your  promise  —  You  should  be  more  self-con- 
tained. 

Olga.  I  am  so  glad,  my  friend,  that  now  our  life  will  be  brighter. 
[  They  pass  on.  Pustobaika,  with  a  basket,  appears  on  the  right,  search- 
ing on  the  ground.] 

Pust.  They  made  a  mess  of  it  here !  left  nothing  but  dirt !  All  they 
do  is  to  clutter  up.      [He  goes  to  the  left.] 

Yulia  [in  the  woods].     Who  is  still  missing? 

Sonya.     Halloa,  Mamma ! 

Bas.     Halloa,  motherkin. 

Mary  a  [appearing  from  the  left,  tired  and  distracted].  I  am  here, 
Sonya. 

Sonya  [running  out  from  the  woods].  Come,  Mamma,  come  .  .  . 
What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

Marya.     Nothing.     I  am  going  to  walk.     Go  on,  tell  them  not  to 


MAXIM  GORKI  65 

wait  for  me. 

Sony  a  [runs  to  one  side,  and  making  a  trumpet  with  her  hands,  calls]. 
Go  along.  Don't  wait  for  us.  We  are  going  to  walk —  What  did  you 
say?     Good-bye. 

Colon  [from  the  woods].     It  will  tire  you. 

Sonya.     Good-bye. 

Mary  a.     Why  didn't  you  go  with  them? 

Sonya.     Because  I  stayed  with  you. 

Marya.     Well,  come  along. 

Sonya.     No,  let's  sit  down  a  minute.  —  You  are  grieved,  Mamma. 
Darling  mother,  sit  down  —  so —  Now  let  me  put  my  arms  around  you  — 
That's  it —     Now,  tell  me,  what's  the  matter  with  you?     [The  sounds  of 
laughter  and  loud  exclamations  come  from  the  woods.] 

Yulia  [from  the  zvoods] .     Don't  rock  the  boat. 

Zam.     No,  don't  sing  —  better  pray. 

Bas.  [from  the  same  direction].  Go  on,  music.  [A  guitar  and  man- 
dolin are  tuned.] 

Vlass  [from  the  woods] .     They  have  pushed  off. 

Marya.     Sonya,  my  little  daughter,  if  you  but  knew ! 

Sonya.     I  do  know. 

Marya.     No,  you  don't. 

Sonya.  Dear  mother,  remember  when  I  was  small  and  could  not  un- 
derstand my  lessons  and  cried  like  a  little  fool,  how  you  came  to  me,  put 
my  head  on  your  bosom  and  rocked  me  —  so.  [She  sings.]  'By-low-by, 
by-low,'  my  dear  mother.  I  think  it  is  you  now  who  do  not  understand  the 
lesson.  —  If  you  love  him —  [Colon  laughs.] 

Marya.  Sonya,  keep  still!  How  do  you  know  that?  [Sounds  of 
the  guitar  and  mandolin  in  the  distance.] 

Sonya.  Sh!  Don't  move!  By-low,  baby,  by-low,  my  mother!  My 
mother  is  wise.  She  taught  me  to  think  clearly.  He  is  a  fine  lad.  Don't 
repel  him.  In  your  hands  he  will  be  better.  You  have  already  educated 
one.  I  am  not  a  bad  person,  am  I,  Mamma?  Now  you  will  bring  up 
another. 

Marya.     That  is  impossible,  my  own  darling. 

Sonya.  Sh!  He  will  be  a  brother  to  me.  He  is  rough.  You  will 
make  him  gentler.      You  are  so  kind.     You  will  teach  him  to  work  with 


66  SUMMER-FOLK 

pleasure  ...  as  you  work  yourself  ...  as  you  taught  me.  He 
will  be  a  good  companion  to  me,  and  we  will  live  happily.  At  first  there 
will  be  only  three  of  us,  and  after  a  while  we  shall  be  four,  because,  my 
darling,  I  am  going  to  marry  this  funny  Maxim.  I  love  him,  Mamma. 
He  is  so  nice. 

Marya.     Sonya,  my  little  girl,  you  will  be  happy  indeed! 

Sonya.  Keep  still  and  listen.  We  shall  complete  our  studies.  Then 
we  shall  live  cosily,  and  happily,  and  pleasantly.  There  will  be  four  of  us, 
Mamma  —  four  energetic,  honest  people. 

Marya.  O  my  joy !  my  happiness !  No,  there  will  be  only  three  of  us 
—  you,  your  husband,  and  I.  And  he,  if  he  should  be  with  us,  will  be  only 
as  your  brother  or  my  son. 

Sonya.  And  we  shall  have  such  a  pleasant  life.  That's  what  we  shall 
do.  Meanwhile,  rest,  Mamma.  Don't  cry.  By-low,  my  mother.  [Tears 
are  in  Sonya' s  voice.     The  music  of  mandolins  and  guitars  in  the  distance. ~\ 

ACT  IV 

Same  scene  as  that  of  the  second  act.  Evening.  The  sun  has  set. 
Bassoff  and  Sussloff  are  playing  chess  under  the  pines.  Sasha  is  setting 
the  table  for  supper  on  the  veranda.  From  the  right  the  sounds  of  a 
gramophone  come  from  the  forest.  Within  Kaleria  plays  some  sad 
music. 

Bas.  Most  of  all,  our  country  needs  well-meaning  men.  A  man  who 
means  well  is  an  evolutionist;  he  is  not  hasty. 

Sus.     I  take  the  knight. 

Bas.  Take  him !  A  well-meaning  man  changes  the  forms  of  life 
slowly,  imperceptibly,  —  but  his  is  the  only  work  that  lasts. 

[Dudakoff  hastily  comes  round  the  corner  of  the  house. ~\ 

Dud.     Halloa!     Is  my  wife  here? 

Bas.     Your  wife?     No.     Sit  down,  doctor. 

Dud.  I  can't,  I  am  in  a  hurry  ....  I  must  write  my  school 
report. 

Bas.     I  believe  this  is  the  second  year  that  you  have  been  writing  it? 

Dud.  Good  reason  why.  No  one  works  but  myself.  There  are  men 
galore,  but  no  workers.  —  Why?      [He  goes  off.] 


MAXIM  GORKI  67 

Bas.     This  Doctor  is  a  funny  man. 

Sus.     Your  move.  — 

Bas.  Yes.  —  There  she  goes.  —  I  said  —  we  should  be  well-meaning. 
—  Misanthropy,  my  friend,  is  an  unnecessary  luxury.  —  I  came  here 
eleven  years  ago,  —  and  all  I  possessed  was  a  portfolio  and  a  carpet.  The 
portfolio  was  empty  and  the  carpet  poor.     I,  too,  was  poor. 

Sus.     Check  to  the  queen. 

Bas.     The  deuce !     How  did  I  miss  your  move  with  the  knight? 

Sus.     If  a  man  philosophizes  he  loses. 

Bas.     '  Fact,'  '  fact,'  say  the  ducks. 

[He  becomes  absorbed  in  the  game.  Vlass  and  Marya  are  coming 
from  the  forest.      They  cannot  see  the  players.] 

Marya  [in  an  undertone'].  My  dear  good  youth!  Believe  me,  you 
will  soon  get  over  this  —  you  will,  and  then  you  will  thank  me. 

Vlass  [audibly].  It  grieves  me,  it  grieves  me  very  much.  [Bassoff 
listens  and  makes  a  sign  to  Sussloff  to  keep  still.] 

Marya.  Go,  go  as  soon  as  you  can,  my  dear  boy.  I  promise  to  write 
you —  Work,  seek  to  make  a  place  in  life —  Dare,- don't  give  in  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  details  of  life.  You  are  good  and  I  love  you.  Yes,  yes,  I 
love  you.  [Bassoff  stares,  while  Sussloff  winks.]  But  you  don't  need 
my  love,  and  it  does  me  no  good.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  it.  —  But  I 
am  sorry.  You  will  quickly  get  over  your  infatuation,  while  I  —  I  should 
love  you  more  and  more  as  time  went  on.  And  it  would  only  be  ridiculous 
and  perhaps  commonplace,  at  all  events  it  would  be  sad  for  me. 

Vlass.     No,  I  swear  to  you.  — 

Marya.     There  is  no  need  of  swearing. 

Vlass.     When  love  passes  —  respect  remains. 

Marya.  That  is  not  enough  for  a  woman  who  loves.  —  And  please 
remember  this,  my  dear  boy :  I  am  ashamed  to  live  a  selfish  life.  It  may 
be  absurd,  queer,  but  at  present  it  is  hard  to  live  a  selfish  life.  Go,  my 
friend,  go.  And  be  sure  that  when  you  need  a  friend,  —  come  to  me,  and 
I  will  meet  you  as  a  son,  a  dearly  beloved  son  —     Good-bye  ! 

Vlass.  Give  me  your  hand.  I  should  like  to  kneel  before  you !  How 
devotedly  I  love  you.  —  I  could  weep.  —  Good-bye ! 

Marya.  Good-bye,  my  dearest,  my  loved  one —  Remember  my 
advice —     Don't  give  in  —  never,  never,  never  — 


68  SUMMER-FOLK 

Vlass.  I  am  going  —  my  love!  My  pure  first  love!  I  thank  you. 
[Marya  quickly  takes  the  road  that  leads  into  the  woods  on  the  right. 
Vlass  is  about  to  go  into  Bassoff' s  house  when  he  sees  Bassoff  and  Suss- 
LOFF  and  understands  that  they  have  heard  all.  Bassoff  rises,  bows  and  is 
about  to  speak.]      Silence,  not  a  word !     Silence !      [Vlass  goes  in.~\ 

Bas.  \_confused~\.     There's  discipline  for  you. 

Sus.     Aha!     You  are  frightened! 

Bas.  No;  but  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it?  I  suspected  as  much, 
but  such  generosity !  They  acted  well !  [He  laughs.  Yulia  and  Zamy- 
sloff  are  seen  coming  from  Sussloff's  house.  Yulia  walks  towards  her 
husband.     Zamysloff  also  goes  into  the  house.~\ 

Sus.     That's  all  premeditated  so  as  to  hold  the  lad  better. 

Bas.     Yes,  that's  so!      It's  too  funny  for  anything! 

Sus.  [frowning'].  She  is  a  crafty  woman.  She  has  played  me  a  trick, 
too.     You  know,  uncle  followed  her  advice  and  gave  all  his  money  to  — 

Yulia.     Piotr,  there's  some  one  here  to  see  you.  — 

Bas.  [interrupting].     No;  let  me  tell  you  what  happened. 

Sus.     Who  is  it? 

Yulia  [to  her  husband].  A  contractor;  he  says  it's  urgent  business. 
Something  has  tumbled.  — 

Sus.     Bosh!  [leaving  hurriedly]. 

Bas.  Fancy,  my  dear.  While  we  sat  here,  suddenly  comes  Marya 
Lvovna.  —  It  seems  there  is  a  love  affair  between  them — [laughs]. 

Yulia.     Between  whom?     My  husband  and  Marya?      [Laughs.] 

Bas.     No!     Vlass!     Between  this  clown  and  this  — 

Yulia.  Indeed !  But  thanks  to  your  tongue  every  one  knows  it  al- 
ready. 

Bas.  But  here  are  the  details!  [Colon  appears  round  the  corner 
with  packages,  followed  by  Rumin.] 

Colon.  Peace  be  unto  you!  Is  Varvara  Michailovna  at  home?  See 
whom  I  have  brought  with  me. 

Bas.  Halloa!  Have  you  returned  from  distant  lands?  How  are 
you  ?  You  have  improved  wonderfully  and  how  tanned  you  are !  you  have 
lost  flesh,  though !     Where  do  you  come  from  ? 

Rumin.  From  the  south.  I  saw  the  sea  for  the  first  time.  How  do 
you  do,  Yulia  Fillipovna  ? 


MAXIM  GORKI  69 

Yulia.  You  have  really  improved,  Pavel  Serguevitch,  —  if  that's  the 
result,  I  had  better  go  south  myself. 

Colon.  I  am  going  in.  [He  goes  in.]  I  brought  you  some  sweets, 
niece. 

Bas.     '  I  saw  the  sea 

I  measured  it  with  rapturous  eyes 
And  tested  the  power  of  my  spirit 
In  its  presence.' 
Is  that  right?     Go  in ;  my  wife  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you. 

Rumin.  It's  grand !  Music  alone  is  capable  of  expressing  its  beauty 
and  greatness.  Man  feels  so  insignificant  in  its  presence  —  an  atom  con- 
fronting eternity. 

[VARVARA  appears  around  the  corner.'] 

Bas.  I  will  put  away  the  chess.  Varya,  do  you  know  that  Pavel 
Sergueyevitch  has  returned? 

Var.     Is  he  here  ? 

Bas.  [going  up  to  her].  Yes;  and  I  believe  he  has  added  to  his  vocab- 
ulary of  graphic  words.  —  Varucha  !  If  you  but  knew!  as  I  was  playing  a 
game  with  Sussloff,  Marya  Lvovna  and  Vlass  came  up,  unexpectedly.  I 
told  you  it  was  a  love  affair !  [He  laughs.]  You  said  it  wasn't,  you  know. 
But  it  is,  it  is.     That's  a  fact. 

Var.     Don't,  Serguey,  I  fear  you  may  utter  some  vulgarity. 

Bas.     But  I  haven't  yet. 

Var.  I  asked  you  not  to  mention  their  relations,  and  you  tell  it  to 
everybody.     Can't  you  understand  that  you  are  doing  wrong? 

Bas.     There  you  go !     It's  absolutely  impossible  to  talk  to  you.  — 

Colon  [seating  himself  on  the  step  of  the  veranda].  I  brought 
sweets  to  all  the  ladies  —  so  that  they  should  remember  me  pleasantly,  you 
know.     Will  you  give  me  your  photograph? 

Var.     Yes,  I'll  get  it  for  you.      [She  goes  in.] 

Colon.     Well,  uncle  Vlass,  it's  about  time  for  us  to  be  going. 

Vlass.     Yes,  I  wish  the  hours  would  pass  quickly. 

Colon.  We  have  less  than  twenty-four  hours  now.  I  wish  we  could 
get  your  sister  to  come  with  us. 

Vlass.     They  are  all  loafers  here. 

Colon.     I  am  glad  you  are  going  with  me.      I  live  in  a  pretty  little 


;o  SUMMER-FOLK 

town.  There's  a  river  and  the  woods  are  near.  I  have  a  large  house  of  ten 
rooms.  When  you  cough  in  one  room  the  echo  answers  in  the  others;  in 
the  winter  when  it  storms  outside,  the  echo  is  very  noticeable.  That's  how 
it  is.  [Sonya  approaches  quickly  from  the  right.~\  Of  course,  when  one 
is  young,  solitude  is  good  for  man,  but  in  old  age,  you  understand,  it's  better 
to  have  a  companion.  [He  sighs  audibly.]  Ah!  here  comes  the  tom-boy! 
[Addressing  her.]  Good-bye,  I  am  going  away  tomorrow,  and  after  to- 
morrow you'll  forget  the  old  man,  as  though  he  had  never  lived. 

Sonya.     No,  I  won't.     You  have  such  a  funny  name. 

Colon.  Is  that  the  reason  why  you'll  remember  me  ? 

Sonya.  No,  dear  uncle,  I  really  won't  forget  you !  You  are  such  a 
good,  dear  man,  so  simple !  I  like  people  who  are  natural.  Have  you 
seen  mamma? 

Colon.     No,  I  haven't  had  that  pleasure. 

Vlass.  She  isn't  here.  Let  us  go  and  look  for  her.  —  She  may  be  in 
the  pavilion  by  the  river. 

Kal.     Are  you  willing  I  should  go  with  you  ? 

Sonya.  Come  along.  [  They  disappear  in  the  woods.  Colon  looks 
after  them,  sighs  and  hums.  Varvara,  followed  by  Rumin,  comes  out 
of  the  house  with  a  photograph  in  her  hands.] 

Far.     Here's  my  photograph.     When  do  you  go? 

Colon.  Tomorrow.  Thank  you !  Ah,  my  dear  lady,  1  have  become 
quite  attached  to  you. 

Far.     Why  should  you  care  for  me? 

Colon.  How  do  I  know?  Do  people  care  for  some  reason?  It's 
generally  without  any  reason.  True  affection,  you  know,  like  the  sun  in 
the  sky,  is  not  to  be  explained. 

Far.     I  don't  know. 

Colon.  Yes;  I  see  you  don't.  You'd  better  come  and  stay  with  me. 
Your  brother  is  going.     You  could  find  yourself  an  occupation. 

Far.     What  could  I  do?     I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything. 

Colon.  You  haven't  been  taught,  that's  why.  You  can  learn!  Vlass 
and  I  are  going  to  build  schools,  —  a  boys'  school  and  girls'  school. 

Rumin  [absent-mindedly].  One  should  have  something  to  do,  that 
life  may  have  a  meaning  —  some  important  thing  —  something  that  would 
leave  a  trace  hereafter —     One  should  build  temples  — 


MAXIM  GORKI  71 

Colon.  Yes,  but  that's  too  highfalutin  for  me.  Even  the  schools 
were  suggested  to  me  by  a  kind  person,  —  I  didn't  think  of  them  myself,  — 
that's  how  it  was! 

Ritmin.  Yes;  even  the  higher  schools  give  only  contradictory  theories 
and  suggestions  concerning  the  mysteries  of  life. 

Var.  [annoyed] .     Heavens,  what  an  old  story ! 

Rumin  [looks  at  them  all  quizzically  and  laughs  gently].  Yes,  I  know 
they  are  idle  words,  dead,  like  autumn  leaves.  —  I  say  them  only  because  it's 
an  old  habit.  —  I  cannot  tell  why,  —  perhaps  because  it's  autumn  now. — 
Since  I  saw  the  sea  the  ceaseless  noise  of  the  green  waves  echoes  in  my  heart 
and  their  music  drowns  all  the  words  of  men,  like  rain  drops  in  the  sea. 

Var.  You  are  a  queer  fellow.  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  [Ka- 
leria  and  Vlass  are  coming  from  the  forest  on  the  right.] 

Rumin  [laughing].     Nothing,  I  assure  you. 

Kal.     To  stand  firmly  means  to  stand  knee-deep  in  mud. 

Vlass.  And  you  wish  to  stand  firmly  in  the  air?  You  are  more  con- 
cerned about  the  spotlessness  of  your  train  than  the  purity  of  your  soul? 
But  who  cares  for  you,  cold  and  pure  though  you  may  be? 

Kal.     Myself! 

Vlass.     An  error !     You  are  useless  even  to  yourself. 

Kal.  I  don't  wish  to  talk  with  you  —  you  are  rude.  [She  goes  into 
the  house.] 

Colon.  Well,  uncle  Vlass !  You  have  provoked  the  lady,  so  now  are 
you  satisfied? 

Vlass  [seating  himself  on  the  lowest  step  at  his  sister's  feet].  I  am 
tired  of  her.  [Mimicking  her.]  'I  am  dying  of  longing!'  I  told  her 
she  must  live  with  people  and  die  alone. 

Rumin  [speaks  quickly].     Ah!     That's  cruel,  but  you  are  right! 

[Bassoff  and  Yulia  come  out  on  the  veranda.] 

Var.  [aside].  Life  passes  us  by  without  touching  our  hearts,  —  it 
only  acts  on  our  brains. 

Bas.  I  told  Sasha  to  serve  supper  here.  [Sussloff  is  seen  briskly 
walking  from  his  house.]  Semion  Semionitch,  we  will  have  a  farewell  feast 
in  your  honor,  and  some  champagne.     It's  a  legitimate  excuse ! 

Colon.     I  am  highly  honored. 

Sus.     Yulia,  I  want  to  see  you  a  moment. 

Yulia.     What's  the  matter?     [Sussloff  takes  his  wife  apart  and 


72  SUMMER-FOLK 

whispers  something  in  her  ear.  She  moves  away  from  him.  He  compels 
her  to  take  his  arm  and  leads  her  to  the  right,  where  they  remain  conversing 
for  a  few  moments,  then  they  return  to  the  veranda  as  Bassoff  is  about 
to  leave.] 

Bas.  I'll  treat  you  with  sausage,  most  delicious  sausage,  —  one  of  my 
clients  sent  it  from  the  Ukraine.  But  where  is  my  assistant?  [In  an 
undertone.]      He  is  also  the  assistant  of  Yulia  Fillipovna's  husband! 

Far.  [indignant,  in  a  low  voice].     That's  horrible,  Serguey! 

Bas.  [boldly].  But  every  one  knows  it!  And  why  should  you  speak 
so  bluntly,  Varya?      [He  goes  into  the  house.] 

Yulia.  Uncle !  A  wall  crumbled  in  one  of  Piotr's  prisons  and  crushed 
two  women ! 

Sus.  [smiling].     And  you  rejoice! 

Far.  [frightened].     You  don't  mean  it!     Where  did  it  happen? 

Sus.     In  a  district  prison. 

Colon.     Accept  my  felicitations !     Had  you  inspected  the  work? 

Sus.     I  did.  —  It's  the  fault  of  that  rascally  contractor! 

Yulia.     He  lies !  —  He  had  no  time  to  inspect  it ! 

Colon.     You  ought  to  be  whipped!     Calling  yourself  men!     Loafers! 

Sus.  [smiling  viciously].     I'll  shoot  myself;  that  will  be  fine  acting. — 

Rumin  [shakes  his  head].     No,  you  won't  shoot  yourself. 

Sus.     But  if  I  should? 

Far.     Tell  us  about  it,  Piotr.     Did  those  who  were  crushed  die  ? 

Sus.  [with  a  scowl].     I  don't  know.     I'll  go  there  tomorrow. 

Floss  [scolds  aloud] .     Such  rascality ! 

Sus.  [with  a  snarl] .     Look  out,  young  man,  be  careful. 

Olga  [approaching].  Good  evening.  How  funny  you  look  —  like 
birds  in  the  fall —  I  have  seen  you  today  before  now —  Ah,  Pavel  Ser- 
gueyvitch!  When  did  you  return?  [Sussloff  goes  aside  with  his  wife 
and  tells  her  something.  His  face  has  a  vicious  expression.  Yulia  makes 
a  mock  bow  and  returns  to  the  veranda.  Sussloff,  whistling,  goes  to- 
wards his  house.     Colon,  after  glancing  at  Yulia,  follows  him.] 

Rumin.     Today. 

Olga.  And  here  already?  You  are  a  faithful  friend.  My!  How 
hot  it  is!  But  Fall  will  be  here  presently —  We  shall  move  back  into 
town,  and  then  within  our  stone  walls  we  shall  become  strangers  to  each 


MAXIM  GORKI  73 

other. 

Vlass  [growling] .     The  whining  begins ! 

Bas.  [in  the  doorway].  Please,  Pavel  Sergueyvitch,  I  wish  to  see  you 
a  moment.  [Rumin  enters  the  house.  He  is  met  by  Kaleria  and  Shali- 
MOFF.  Vlass,  without  replying  to  Olga,  rises  from  the  steps  and  goes 
towards  the  pines.] 

Olga  [to  Vlass].     Isn't  that  so? 

Shal.  [indifferently  and  slowly].  Democracy  is  expected  to  give  new 
life.     But  pray  tell  me,  what  kind  of  a  beast  a  democrat  is? 

Kal.  [agitated].  Yes,  you  are  right,  —  a  thousand  times  right.  It  is 
still  a  beast.     It  has  but  one  conscious  wish  —  not  to  be  hungry. 

Shal.     And  to  wear  squeaking  boots. 

Kal.     What  does  he  believe  ?     What  does  he  profess  ? 

Vlass  [with  irritation].  And  you!  What  do  you  believe?  What 
do  you  profess  ? 

Kal.  [not  replying  to  Vlass].  Life  is  renewed  by  the  Faithful  —  by 
the  aristocracy  of  the  spirit  — 

Vlass.     Who  is  this  aristocracy?     Where  is  it? 

Kal.  I  don't  wish  to  speak  to  you,  Vlass.  Let  us  go  off,  Iakov 
Petrovitch  —  there. —  [They  descend  the  steps  of  the  veranda  and  seating 
themselves,  continue  their  conversation.  Kaleria  is  agitated,  Shalimoff 
calm,  indifferent,  and  appears  weary.] 

Far.  [approaching] .     Vlass  !     You  seem  very  nervous  today ! 

Vlass.     I  am  distressed. 

Yulia.     Let's  go  to  the  river,  Vlass. 

Vlass.     No,  excuse  me,  I  don't  care  to. 

Yulia.     Please  come !      I  want  to  tell  you  something. 

Vlass  [reluctantly].  So  be  it,  then.  Well,  what  is  it?  [Yulia  takes 
his  arm  and  speaks  to  him  inaudibly  as  they  walk  to  the  rear  of  the  stage. 
Varvara  goes  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda.] 

Olga  [catching  Varvara's  hand] .  Varya !  Are  you  still  angry 
with  me  ? 

Var.  [pensively].     Angry?     No. 

Vlass  [speaks  loudly  in  the  rear  of  the  stage].  Vulgar  man!  If  he 
hadn't  been  my  sister's  husband  — 

Yulia.     Sh  !  —  sh  !  —  [She  draws  him  into  the  woods.] 


74  SUMMER-FOLK 

Var.  [frightened].     Heavens!     What  now? 

Olga.  Probably  the  engineer's  wife  is  telling  tales.  —  Varya,  I  see 
you  are  still  angry.  It  was  but  a  word  that  escaped  me  in  a  moment  of  ex- 
citement. 

Var.  [pensively].  Don't  say  any  more  —  please!  I  don't  like  any- 
thing patched  —  like  patched  friendship.     .     .     . 

Olga  [rises].     How  unforgiving  you  are! 

Var.  [firmly  and  coldly].  We  forgive  too  much.  —  It's  a  weakness, 
which  kills  esteem.  There  is  one  man  whom  I  forgave  too  much  —  now  I 
am  of  no  consequence  in  his  estimation. 

Olga.  You  mean  Serguey  Vassilievitch?  [Varvara  makes  no  reply, 
she  nods  and  rocks  to  and  fro,  gazing  vacantly  beyond.]  How  quickly 
people  change.  I  remember  him  as  a  student.  What  a  fine  fellow  he  was 
then.  Poor  and  light-hearted.  '  Happy-go-lucky '  his  friends  called  him. 
.  .  .  You  have  changed  but  little  .  .  .  you  are  the  same  dreamy, 
earnest,  and  serious  woman.  When  it  was  known  that  you  had  become 
engaged,  I  remember  Kyrill  said  to  me,  Bassoff  will  prosper  with  such  a  wife. 
He  is  thoughtless  and  inclined  to  vulgarity  —  but  she  — 

Var.  [simply].  Why  do  you  say. this,  Olga?  To  prove  that  I  don't 
amount  to  much? 

Olga.  Varya!  How  can  you  think  such  a  thing?  .  .  .  It  sim- 
ply came  into  my  head.      ... 

Var.  [without  raising  her  voice,  distinctly  and  like  a  verdict  to  herself.] 
Yes,  I  am  also  a  helpless,  pitiable  creature.  Is  it  what  you  wished  to  say? 
I   know  it ;.  I  knew  it  long  ago. 

Sasha  [from  the  veranda].  Madam,  your  husband  wishes  to  see 
you.      [Varvara  rises  and  silently  goes  into  the  house.] 

Olga  [following  her].  Wait  a  moment,  Varya;  you  have  misunder- 
stood me ! 

Kal.  [in  an  undertone].  The  man  who  thinks  that  the  truth  is  discov- 
ered—  is  dead  to  me.  [A  pause.  Shalimoff  smokes.]  Tell  me,  does 
life  make  you  sad? 

Shal.     Yes ;  now  and  then,  quite  sad. 

Kal.     Often? 

Shal.  One  is  never  happy.  I  have  already  seen  too  much  to  be  merry. 
And  then,  I  say  this  without  hesitation,  it  is  not  a  time  when  one  can  be 


MAXIM  GORKI  75 

merry.  — 

Kal.     The  life  of  every  thinking  person  is  a  sad  drama. 

Shal.     Tell  me.  — 

Kal.     What? 

Shal.  [rising].     Tell  me  frankly,  do  you  like  my  stories? 

Kal.  [with  animation].  Exceedingly!  Particularly  the  last  one. — 
They  are  less  realistic,  they  are  less  brutal.  They  have  that  tender,  warm 
sadness  which  envelops  the  soul  like  a  cloud  that  covers  the  sun  at  sunset. 
But  few  can  appreciate  them;  those  few  love  you. 

Shal.  [with  a  smile'].  I  thank  you.  You  spoke  of  your  new  verses. 
Will  you  read  them? 

Kal.  Some  time.  [A  pause.  Shalimoff  silently  bows  his  head, 
acquiescing.  Vlass  and  Yulia  are  slowly  coming  to  the  pines  from  the 
forest  on  the  right.  Yulia  goes  into  the  house.']  Do  you  wish  to  hear  it 
now? 

Shal.     What  —  now? 

Kal.  [with  a  smile].     You  forgot  so  quickly? 

Shal.  [frowning].      I  beg  your  pardon,  but  — 

Kal.  [rising] .  You  asked  me  to  read  my  verses  —  Would  you  like 
to  hear  them  now  ? 

Shal.  [hurriedly].  Yes!  It's  such  a  fine  evening.  It  will  be  delight- 
ful. But  you  were  mistaken.  I  did  not  forget.  I  was  simply  absent- 
minded.      I  misunderstood  your  question. 

Kal.  [goes  in].  Very  well,  I  will  read  them,  although  you  really  don't 
care  — 

Shal.  [following  her].  I  assure  you  it  isn't  so.  [Kaleria  quickly 
runs  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda.  Shalimoff  shrugs  his  shoulders  and 
makes  a  grimace.  Turning  round  he  sees  Vlass.  Colon  and  Sussloff 
are  coming  from  SussloFf's  house.     Both  are  silent  and  out  of  sorts.] 

Shal.  [to  Vlass].     You  are  dreaming? 

Vlass   [pleasantly].      I  am  whistling. 

[Olga  enters  the  veranda.  She  seats  herself  in  a  rocking-chair  be- 
side the  railing.  Rumin,  who  followed  her,  places  himself  beside  her. 
She  talks  to  him.  Bassoff  comes  next;  he  pauses  by  the  table  and  ex- 
amines the  hors  d'oeuvre.  Varvara  remains  standing,  leaning  on  the 
columns.     Zamysloff  stands  before  her.] 


76  SUMMER-FOLK 

Bas.     All  here  ?     But  where  are  Vlass  and  Marya  Lvovna  ? 

Vlass.  I  am  here.  [Yulia  comes  from  the  house  humming  and 
seats  herself  on  one  of  the  steps.  Colon  remains  standing,  listening  to 
Zamysloff.  Susloff,  glancing  at  the  orator,  passes  on  to  the  pines, 
where  Shalimoff  and  Vlass  sit  in  silence.'] 

Zam.     We  are  all  complex  people,  Varvara  Michailovna. 

Bas.  [bending  over  the  railing'].     You  here,  Iakov!     That's  good. 

Zam.  It  is  this  complexity  of  our  psychology  that  causes  us  —  the  best 
people  of  the  land  —  to  be  called  the  'Intellectuals,'  and  you. —  [Marya 
and  Sonya  are  seen  approaching.] 

Var.  [nervously].  We  are  not  'the  Intellectuals'  —  we  —  are  the 
summer-folk  of  our  country  —  transients.  We  bustle  and  seek  the  best 
places  in  life.     We  do  nothing  and  talk  altogether  too  much. 

Bas.  [with  a  sneer].  You,  above  all,  prove  the  truth  of  your  own 
words. 

[Kaleria  comes  with  a  copybook  in  hand,  pauses  by  the  table,  and 
listens.] 

Var.  [excitedly].  And  there  is  so  much  mendacity  in  our  conversa- 
tions !  To  conceal  from  each  other  our  spiritual  poverty  we  adopt  graphic 
sentences  and  cheap  tags  of  book  lore.  We  speak  of  the  tragedy  of  our 
life,  without  knowing  it,  we  like  to  groan,  whine,  and  complain. 

DuDAKOFF  approaches  the  veranda  and  places  himself  so  as  not  to 
he  seen  by  his  wife.] 

Rumin  [nervously].  You  must  be  just.  A  man's  complaint  is  pictur- 
esque.    It  is  cruel,  Varvara,  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  a  man's  complaints. 

Var.  We  have  complained  enough.  We  must  have  the  courage  to 
be  silent.  We  know  how  to  be  silent  when  we  are  happy?  Each  one 
swallows  his  dose  of  happiness  by  himself,  but  his  sorrow,  perhaps  an  in- 
significant scratch  of  the  heart,  we  proclaim  in  public,  we  show  it,  shouting 
and  calling  the  world's  attention  to  our  trouble.  We  throw  the  remnants 
of  food  from  our  houses  and  poison  the  air  of  the  town.  In  the  same  way 
we  discard  from,  our  souls  all  their  filth  and  burden  and  cast  them  under  the 
feet  of  our  neighbors.  I  am  sure  that  hundreds  and  thousands  of  healthy 
men  perish  poisoned  and  stunned  by  our  groans  and  complaints.  Who 
granted  the  baneful  right  to  poison  men  with  the  intolerable  aspect  of  our  in- 
dividual wounds? 


MAXIM  GORKI  77 

Vlass  [softly].     Bravo,  Varya! 

Colon.  Clever  girl!  Well  said.  [Marya  silently  strokes  the  hand 
of  Varvara.  Vlass  and  Sonya  are  also  beside  her.  Rumin  nods  ner- 
vously.] 

Rumin.     I  ask  leave  to  speak  —  allow  me  to  make  my  last  speech! 
Kal.     You  must  '  have  the  courage  to  be  silent.' 
Olga  [to  Bassoff].     How  sharply  she  has  learned  to  talk. 
Bas.     Yes,  Balaam's —  [He  claps  his  hand  over  his  mouth,  and  does 
not  finish  the  sentence.     Varvara,  in  her  excitement,  did  not  notice  her 
husband's  remark,  but  many  heard  and  understood  it.     Shalimoff  smiles 
and  shakes  his  head  reprovingly.     Vlass  and  Sonya  look  at  Bassoff  with 
contempt.     Others  pretend  not  to  have  heard.      The  fragmentary  remarks 
which  followed  the  zvords  of  VARVARA  are  succeeded  by  an  awkward  silence. 
Sussloff  coughs  and  smiles.     Varvara,  perceiving  something  unusual, 
uneasily  looks  around.] 

Far.     I  believe  I  must  have  said  something  rude.     Why  do  you  all 
look  at  me  so? 

Vlass.     It's  not  you  who  were  rude. 
Olga  [with  an  innocent  air].     What  is  the  trouble? 
Marya  [persuasively  and  softly].    Don't  Vlass !     Please  don't!     [She 
tries  to  remove  the  impression  of  what  Vlass  said,  gradually  becomes  excited 
and  speaks  with  fervor.    Shalimoff,  Sussloff,  and  Zamysloff  pretend 
not  to  listen.    Dudakoff  nods  his  head  approvingly.    Bassoff  looks  at  her 
with  gratitude  and  by  gestures  invites  people  to  listen.]      We  must  all  be 
different.     We,  who  are  children  of  washerwomen,  cooks,  and  healthy  work- 
men, should  be  different !      Our  country  never  had  educated  men  united  to 
the  people  by  ties  of  kinship.     Our  blood  relationship  should  inspire  us  with 
a  strong  wish  to  broaden,  reconstruct,  and  enlighten  the  lives  of  our  kin, 
who  spend  their  time  in  work,  darkness,  and  filth !     We  should  endeavor 
to  broaden  life  not  through  pity  or  charity,  —  we  should  do  it  for  our  own 
sake,  to  escape  this  cursed  estrangement,  and  hide  the  chasm  between  us  — 
on  the  heights,  —  and  our  kin  below,  in  the  depths,  —  whence  they  look  up 
at  us  as  though  we  were  their  enemies,  who  live  by  their  toil !     They  have 
sent  us  on  to  find  the  way  to  a  better  life,  and  we  left  them  behind,  and  have 
wandered  ourselves.     We  have  made  our  own  solitude  and  filled  it  with 
restless  confusion  and  inward  dualism.     Such  is  our  drama :  we  have  created 


78  SUMMER-FOLK 

it  ourselves  and  it  is  to  be  our  punishment.  Yes,  Varya,  we  have  no  right 
to  groan  —  [She  is  overcome  by  her  feelings  and  seats  herself  opposite  Var- 
VARA.     Silence.'] 

Dud.     Yes ;  it's  all  true  ! 

Olga  [quickly].     Do  you  hear?     Come  here! 

Shal.  [raises  his  hat].     Have  you  finished,  Madam? 

Marya.     Yes. 

Olga  [leads  her  husband  aside  to  the  end  of  the  veranda].  You 
have  heard  and  understood  ?     What  a  fool  that  Bassoff  is  ! 

Dud.  [in  a  low  voice].  What  has  Bassoff  to  do  with  all  this?  [A 
general  commotion  on  the  veranda.  Varvara  looks  around.  There  is 
still  an  uncertainty  whether  Bassoff's  ' break'  is  forgotten  or  overlooked.] 

Olga.  Sh !  Varvara  was  saying  such  wicked  things  that  he  called  her 
Balaam's  Ass. 

Dud.  Well,  he  is  a  ruffian.  You  know  you  are  needed  at  home, 
Olga !  — 

Olga.  Wait  a  minute.  Kaleria  is  going  to  read  us  some  poetry. 
But  it's  all  right,  all  right !  Varvara  has  become  so  overbearing. 
[Rumin,  dejected,  descends  the  steps  and  promenades  up  and  down.] 

Shal.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  Kaleria  Vassiliovna  has  most  kindly 
consented  to  read  us  her  poetry. 

Bas.     Do  hurry,  my  dear ! 

Kal.  [excited].     Very  well,  I  will  read.  — 

Shal.     Here  is  a  chair  for  you. 

Kal.  I  don't  need  it.  Varvara,  what  is  the  matter?  This  interest 
in  my  poetry  surprises  me. 

Far.  I  can't  tell.  Evidently,  some  one  has  made  some  tactless  re- 
mark and  they  all  wish  to  hide  it. 

Kal.  I'll  begin.  I  fear  the  same  fate  will  overtake  my  poetry  as 
your  sermons,  Varya.     Everything  is  swallowed  in  the  bottomless  pit  of  life. 

Driven  by  the  breath  of  Autumn 
The  picturesque  snowflakes  slowly  fall 
Like  small  dead  flowers 
From  the  cold  heights. 

They  whirl  above  the  earth, 
The  tired,  ailing,  dirty  earth, 


MAXIM  GORKI  79 

Tenderly  covering  its  filth 

With  their  pure  and  caressing  shroud. 

Black,  gloomy  birds. — 

Dead  trees  and  shrubs.  — 

White  mute  snowflakes 

Are  falling  from  the  cold  heights. 

[A  pause.     Everybody  looks  at  Kaleria  as  though  expecting  more.] 

Shal.     Charming! 

Rumin  [thoughtfully"].  The  picturesque  'snowflakes  fall  like  cold, 
dead  flowers.' 

Vlass  [excitedly] .     I  can  make  poetry,  too.     I  will  read  you  my  verses. 

Colon  [laughing].     Goon! 

Shal.     An  interesting  contest ! 

Far.     Vlass,  is  this  necessary? 

Zam.     If  it  is  funny,  it  is. 

Marya.  My  dear  fellow,  let  me  remind  you  once  more  to  be  true  to 
yourself !      [All  look  at  the  excited  face  of  Vlass.      There  is  a  hush.] 

Vlass.  I  want  to  show  you  how  easy  and  simple  it  is  to  put  such  rub- 
bish into  your  neighbors'  heads.  Listen  !  [He  reads  clearly  and  distinctly, 
and  with  sarcasm  in  his  voice.] 

Small,  useless  men 

Who  tread  the  soil  of  my  country.  — 
They  go  about  and  dolefully  seek  a  place 
Where  they  can  hide  from  life. 

They  wish  cheap  happiness, 

Repletion,  comforts,  and  rest. 

They  go  about  complaining  and  groaning, 

These  commonplace  liars  and  cowards. 

Narrow,  stolen  thoughts, 
Fashionable,  telling  words.  — 
Men  creep  timidly  on  the  outskirts  of  life 
Like  ghostly  shadows. 

[He  remains  motionless,  looking  in  turn  at  Shalimoff,  Rumin,  and 
Sussloff.     All  feel  uneasy.     Kaleria  shrugs  her  shoulders.     Shalimoff 


80  SUMMER-FOLK 

slowly  lights  a  cigarette.  Sussloff  becomes  excited.  Marya  and  Var- 
VARA  go  up  to  Vlass  as  though  they  were  apprehensive.'] 

Dud.  [softly  and  distinctly].  Yes,  this  is  very  telling  —  remarkably 
true. 

Yulia.     Bravo!      I  like  it,  too. 

Colon.     You  said  it.     You  honest  soul ! 

Kal.     It's  impudent  and  wicked!     Why  did  you  say  all  this? 

Zam.     Yes,  it's  not  cheerful. 

Shal.     What  do  you  think  of  it,  Serguey? 

Bas.     Well,  you  see,  of  course  the  rhymes  are  poor,  but  as  a  joke  — 

Zam.     It  is  too  serious  to  be  a  joke. 

Yulia  [to  Shalimoff].     How  cleverly  you  dissemble! 

Sus.  [spitefully].  Allow  me,  an  ignorant  man,  to  reply  to  this.  Ex- 
cuse me,  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  call  this  kind  of  authorship.  I  will  not  reply 
to  you,  Vlass  Michailovitch !  I  will  address  myself  directly  to  the  source 
of  your  inspiration,  to  you,  Marya  Lvovna. 

Vlass.     What's  that?     Beware! 

Marya  [haughtily].     Me?     Why?     However,  I  am  listening! 

Sus.  I  do  so,  because  I  know  that  you  are  the  muse  who  inspired  this 
poet. 

Vlass.     No  vulgarity,  if  you  please. 

Yulia  [gently].     He  can't  do  without  it. 

Sus.  Pray  don't  interrupt  me.  When  I  have  finished,  I  will  be  re- 
sponsible for  everything  I  have  said.  Yes,  Marya  Lvovna,  you  are,  so  to 
speak,  a  person  of  ideas.  Somewhere  you  are  accomplishing  something 
mysterious,  perhaps  something  great,  historical.  But  that  doesn't  concern 
me.  Evidently  you  believe  that  your  activity  gives  you  the  right  to  treat 
people  haughtily. 

Marya  [calmly].     That  isn't  true. 

Sus.  You  undertake  to  influence  and  teach  everyone.  You  have 
taught  this  young  man  to  denounce  everyone. 

Vlass.     What  nonsense  you  are  talking ! 

Sus.  [vehemently].  Hold  on,  young  man!  Until  now  I  bore  your 
impudence  patiently.  ...  I  must  tell  you  that  if  we  do  not  live  as  you 
wish  us  to,  esteemed  Marya  Lvovna,  we  have  our  reasons.  We  endured 
and  suffered  in  our  youth.     It  is  but  natural  that  having  arrived  at  years  of 


MAXIM  GORKI  3i 

maturity  we  should  want  to  enjoy  good  living  and  peace  —  in  a  word,  to  re- 
ward ourselves  abundantly  for  the  anxious  and  hungry  years  of  our  youth. 

Shal.  [dryly] .     Whom  do  you  mean  by  '  we,'  if  you  please  ? 

Sus.  [getting  more  excited].  We!  I,  you,  he,  all  of  us.  Yes,  we 
are  all  children  of  mechanics  and  of  the  poor.  We  lived  through  days  of 
anxiety  in  our  youth.  Now,  in  our  mature  years,  we  wish  to  lead  an  easy  and 
restful  life.  That's  our  psychology.  You  don't  like  it,  Marya  Lvovna? 
But  it's  quite  natural,  and  could  not  be  otherwise.  Primarily,  my  most 
esteemed  Marya  Lvovna,  you  must  consider  the  man,  and  all  the  other  ab- 
surd details  follow.  Therefore,  pray  don't  disturb  us.  Even  if  you  abuse 
us,  or  incite  others  to  abuse  us,  or  call  us  liars  and  cowards,  not  one  of  us 
will  undertake  a  life  of  public  service  —  no,  not  one. 

Dud.     What  a  cynic !     You  would  better  stop  ! 

Sits,  [becoming  more  excited].  I  will  speak  for  myself.  I  am  no 
longer  a  youth.  It  is  useless  to  teach  me,  Marya  Lvovna.  I  am  a  man  of 
mature  years,  a  commonplace  Russian,  a  Russian  resident,  and  nothing  else. 
This  is  my  plan  of  life.  I  prefer  to  remain  a  resident.  I  shall  live  as  I 
choose,  and  I  defy  all  your  sermons,  appeals,  and  ideas !  [He  claps  his  hat 
upon  his  head  and  quickly  disappears  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Zamy- 
SLOFF,  Bassoff,  and  Shalimoff  go  aside  and  converse  in  low,  animated 
tones.  Varvara  and  Marya  make  another  group.  Yulia,  Colon,  and 
DuDAKOFF,  with  his  wife,  form  another  group.  General  excitement.  Ka- 
LERIA,  crest-fallen,  stands  alone  under  the  pine  tree.  Rumin  walks  up  and 
down  excitedly.] 

Vlass  [going  aside  and  clasping  his  head  in  his  hands] .  Devil  take  it 
all!      [Sonya  follows  him  and  talks  to  him.] 

Marya.  But  this  is  hysterics !  Only  the  man  who  is  laboring  under 
a  mental  stress  can  make  a  show  of  himself  in  this  way ! 

Rumin  [to  Marya].     You  see  how  distressing  the  truth  is! 

Far.     Yes.     It's  very  sad. 

Colon  [to  Yulia].     I  understand  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing. 

Yulia  [to  Marya].     Tell  me,  my  dear,  has  he  offended  you? 

Marya.     Oh,  no.     He  wronged  himself. 

Colon.     These  are  strange  doings ! 

Dud.  [to  his  wife].  Wait  a  moment.  [To  Colon.]  This  is  like 
an  abscess,  —  an  abscess  of  the  soul,  —  such  as  may  occur  to  any  of  us. 

6 


82  SUMMER-FOLK 

[He  waves  his  hands,  greatly  agitated,  and  cannot  speak.~\ 

Yulia.     I  say,  Nicolas  Petrovitch  — 

Zam.  [approaching  her].     All  this  has  unnerved  you. — 

Yulia.  Not  at  all.  But  I  can't  remain  here  any  longer.  Please  ac- 
company me. 

Zam.  It  is  all  so  absurd.  And  the  host  prepared  such  a  '  palatable ' 
surprise.     It's  too  bad ! 

Yulia.     We  have  had  enough  surprises.      [  They  go  out.'] 

Shal.  [approaching  Kaleria].     Well,  what's  your  opinion? 

Kal.  It's  dreadful !  It's  like  slime  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and 
it  strangles  me.      [Bassoff  goes  to  Vlass  and  slightly  pulls  his  coat  sleeve. ~\ 

Vlass.     Well,  what  is  it? 

Bassoff  [taking  him  aside].     I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

Rumin  [to  Varvara,  greatly  excited].  This  avalanche  of  spiteful 
vulgarity  has  crushed  my  soul !  I  am  completely  upset.  Good-bye,  I  am 
going.  I  came  to  take  leave  of  you.  I  had  hoped  to  spend  such  a  pleasant 
evening  —  my  last  one.  —  Now  I  am  going  away  forever.     Good-bye. 

Far.  [without  heeding  him].  Do  you  know  what  I  thought?  I 
thought  that  Sussloff  was  more  sincere  than  any  of  us.  He  certainly  was. 
He  expressed  brutally  the  bare  truth  which  the  others  did  not  dare  to  express. 

Rumin  [retreating].  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?  Is  that  your  fare- 
well !     Heavens  !      [He  retreats  to  the  rear  of  the  stage.] 

Bas.  [to  Vlass],  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  you  distinguished  yourself! 
What's  to  be  done  now  ?  You  have  offended  your  sister,  Yakov,  who,  you 
know,  is  a  writer  and  respected  by  all  and  myself;  also  Sussloff  and  Rumin. 
You  should  apologize. 

Vlass.     Apologize !     To  them ! 

Bas.  Well,  what  of  that?  You  can  say  'I  was  only  joking.  I 
wanted  to  make  you  laugh,  and  overstepped  the  limits.'  —  They  will  excuse 
you.  They  are  all  used  to  your  eccentricities;  they  know  that  you  are  prac- 
tically a  clown ! 

Vlass  [shouting].     Go  to  the  devil!     You  are  a  clown  yourself! 

Sonya.     Gentlemen,  spare  us ! 

Var.     What's  the  matter  with  you,  Vlass? 

Marya.     This  is  a  wave  of  lunacy ! 

Colon.     Vlass,  you  had  better  go. 


MAXIM  GORKI  83 

Bas.     I  am  offended,  too. 

Var.     Serguey  !     Vlass !      I  beg  of  you  ! 

Bas.     No,  I  am  not  a  clown ! 

Var.     Vlass,  don't  you  dare ! 

Vlass.  Only  my  regard  for  my  sister  prevents  me  from  telling  you.  — 
[Kaleria  approaches  them.'] 

Sasha  [to  Varvara].     Shall  I  serve? 

Var.     Go  away. 

Sasha  [aside  to  Colon]  .  It  would  be  much  better  to  serve !  When 
the  master  sees  the  food  and  the  table  he  will  be  pacified. 

Colon  [to  Sasha].     Clear  out! 

Bas.  [to  Vlass].  No.  Come,  come.  [Suddenly  turns  ferociously 
to  Vlass  and  shouts:]      You  are  nothing  but  a  kid ! 

Kal.     Serguey,  this  is  absurd ! 

Bas.     Yes,  a  kid  —  that's  a  fact! 

Shal.  [taking  Bassoff  by  the  arm  and  leading  him  off  into  the  house. 
Sasha  follows  them].     I  don't  — 

Mary  a.     Oh,  Vlass,  you  are  to  blame ! 

Vlass.     So  you  blame  me? 

Sasha  [to  Bassoff].     Shall  I  serve? 

Bas.  Get  out !  I  am  nothing  here !  I  am  not  master  in  my  own 
house  !      [  They  all  go  in.] 

Mary  a  [to  Sonya].  Take  him  to  our  house.  [To  Vlass.]  Go 
with  her. 

Vlass.  Forgive  me.  And  you,  sister,  forgive  me,  too.  I  am  to 
blame.      My  poor  little  sisterkin,  do  go ! 

Var.  [in  an  undertone].     Where,  where,  shall  I  go? 

Colon.  To  my  house.  That  would  be  so  nice  !  [Nobody  hears  him. 
He  sighs  and  slowly  goes  towards  Sussloff's  house.] 

Marya.     You  had  better  come  to  my  house,  Varya. 

Var.  I  am  coming  by  and  by,  Vlass.  [Varvara  goes  into  the  house, 
while  Marya,  followed  by  Vlass  and  Sonya,  goes  toward  the  forest. 
Kaleria,  completely  overcome  and  tottering,  also  goes  into  the  house.] 

Olga.  This  is  scandalous,  and  so  unexpected.  Did  you  understand 
what  it  all  meant,  Kyrill? 

Dud.     Yes,  I  understood.     Sooner  or  later  we  were  all  bound  to  get 


84  SUMMER-FOLK 

disgusted  with  one  another,  and  now  it  has  come  to  pass.  Vlass  hit  the 
mark.     But  you  should  go  home,  Olga ! 

Glga.  Wait  a  moment.  This  is  so  exciting !  Perhaps  something 
else  will  happen ! 

Dud.  Don't,  Olga.  That  isn't  right;  we  must  go  home!  The  chil- 
dren are  screaming  and  crying!  Volka  has  abused  the  nurse.  She  is 
angry,  and  he  says  she  pulled  his  ear.  In  general,  there  is  a  catastrophe 
there.      I  told  you  long  ago  that  you  ought  to  go  home. 

Olga.     You  didn't. 

Dud.  I  did!  We  stood  here,  and  you  were  speaking  about  Bassoff 
when  I  told  you. 

Olga.     You  told  me  nothing. 

Dud.  I  don't  know  why  you  dispute?  I  remember  it  distinctly.  I 
said,  '  Go  home! ' 

Olga.  You  couldn't  have  said,  '  Go  home ! '  Only  children  and  ser- 
vants are  addressed  in  that  way ! 

Dud.     You  are  a  quarrelsome  woman ! 

Olga.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself !  And  you  promised  to  con- 
trol yourself ! 

Dud.  [walking  away].     Don't.     This  is  idiotic!     Just  like  a  woman! 

Olga  [following  him~\.  Idiotic!  And  I  am  nothing  but  a  woman. 
[With  tears  in  her  eyes.]  Thank  you!  [They  disappear  in  the  forest. 
The  stage  remains  empty  for  a  few  moments.  It  grows  dark.  Bassoff 
and  Shalimoff  re-enter  the  veranda.] 

Shal.  [to  Bassoff].  You  should  be  something  of  a  philosopher,  my 
dear  fellow.     It's  absurd  to  get  excited  over  such  trifles ! 

Bas.  It's  very  annoying.  '  Nothing  but  a  kid ! '  I  hope  you  are  no 
longer  angry? 

Shal.  Such  eccentricities  as  those  of  this  unsuccessful  rhymster  are 
common  in  daily  papers  !  But  whom  do  they  harm  ?  [  They  descend  the 
steps  and  go  toward  the  open.] 

Sus.  [approaching  with  a  hurried  step].  I  have  returned.  [To  Bas- 
soff.] I  am  to  apologize  to  you.  [To  Shalimoff.]  I  beg  your  pardon, 
too !  I  lost  my  self-control !  But  she  has  exasperated  me  for  a  long  time, 
—  she,  and  people  like  her!  They  are  simply  antagonistic  to  me !  I  detest 
her  face  and  manner! 


MAXIM  GORKI  85 

Bas.  I  know,  my  friend,  I  know !  One  should  be  gentle  and  con- 
siderate. 

Shal.  [dryly].     But  you  overstepped  the  limits  by  your  denunciation! 

Bas.  [hastily].  That  will  do.  I  agree  to  everything  he  said.  By 
Jove,  to  be  frank,  I  should  like  this  lady  to  understand  that  — 

Sus.  All  women  are  actresses.  Russian  women  are  dramatic  actresses 
par  excellence.     They  often  play  the  heroine. 

Bas.  Yes,  it's  very  hard  to  live  with  women.  [Varvara  and  Marya 
appear  on  the  terrace.'] 

Shal.  We  make  all  those  difficulties  ourselves !  We  should  under- 
stand that  women  are  still  an  inferior  race. 

Bas.  \_as  though  quoting].  Certainly,  a  woman  is  much  nearer  to  the 
animal  plane.  To  subject  a  woman  to  our  will  it  is  necessary  to  subject  her 
to  a  strong  and  picturesque  despotism.  [In  the  forest,  on  the  right,  a  shot  is 
heard.     No  one  heeds  it.] 

Sus.  A  woman  should  become  a  mother.  Then,  fortunately,  she  is 
in  our  hands. 

Far.  [in  an  undertone,  and  emphatically].     Horrible  ! 

Marya.  Heavens !  This  is  dissolution !  It  is  like  the  stench  of 
corpses.  Let's  go,  Varya.  [Sussloff  hems  and  haws  as  he  slowly  with- 
draws.] 

Bas.  [hastily  running  to  his  wife].     Piotr  has  overstepped  the  limit! 

Far.  [to  Shalimoff].     It's  you  !     You! 

Shal.  [taking  off  his  hat  and  shrugging  his  shoulders] .    What  did  I  do  ? 

Marya.     Let's  go,  Varya.     Come!      [She  leads  Varvara  away.] 

Bas.  [looking  after  them  inquiringly].  Devil  take  it!  They  heard 
what  we  said. 

Shal.  [with  a  smile] .     You  are  not  a  good  ally  ! 

Bas.  [troubled].  I  wish  I  hadn't  said  anything.  Such  an  irritable 
monster!     Why  say  such  things  heedlessly? 

Shal.  [dryly].  I  am  going  tomorrow.  It's  getting  too  cold  and 
damp  here.     I  am  going  in  now. 

Bas.  [dolefully].  And  my  sister  is  bawling!  That's  a  fact!  [They 
go.  Silence.  Pustobaika  and  Kropilkin  come  around  the  corner  of 
Bassoff's  house.  They  are  warmly  clad,  and  carry  watchmen' s  rattles  and 
whistles.     Sounds  of  the  piano  come  from  Sussloff's  house.     The  voices 


86  SUMMER-FOLK 

of  Yulia  and  Zamysloff  mingle  in  a  duet  —  !  The  weary  day ! '] 

Pust.  You  can  patrol  this  district,  while  I  patrol  the  other, — we 
must  be  heard  —  and  then  we'll  meet  in  Stepanida's  kitchen  and  have  some 
tea. 

Kro.     We  started  too  early.     They  are  all  awake  yet. 

Pust.  We  must  let  them  know  that  we  are  about,  for  effect.  Go 
along.  — 

Kro.  [going  to  the  left] .     Oh,  Lord !     All  right ! 

Pust.  Look  at  this  rubbish!  Heathens!  Just  like  drunks,  these 
summer-folks  !  Wherever  they  go  they  clutter  up ;  but  it  is  for  the  likes  of 
us  to  pick  up  after  them.  [He  rattles  and  whistles  energetically.  Kro- 
pilkin  replies  in  the  same  way.  Pustobaika  goes.  Kaleria  appears 
and  sits  down  under  the  pines,  sad  and  wrapt  in  thought.  She  listens  to 
the  singing,  nods,  keeping  time  to  the  music,  and  softly  sings.  To  the  right, 
in  the  forest,  the  voice  of  Pustobaika  is  heard.] 

Pust.  [excited  and  speaking  tow].  Bless  my  heart!  Who  are  you? 
How  did  this  happen? 

[Kaleria  listens  alarmed.] 

Pust.  [appears,  supporting  Rumin].  Shall  I  take  you  to  Bassoff's 
house? 

Kal.     Serguey  !  Serguey ! 

Rumin.     Please  send  for  the  doctor ! 

Kal.  What  happened,  Pavel  Sergueyevitch?  [To  Pustobaika.] 
What  is  the  matter  with  him? 

Pust.  I  was  patrolling,  and  saw  him  crawling  towards  me,  —  he  says 
he  is  wounded. 

Kal.  Are  you  wounded?  [Calls.]  Serguey!  Send  for  Marya 
Lvovna,  quick !     A  doctor,  quick ! 

Bas.  [comes  running  from  the  house].  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
What  does  all  this  mean? 

Rumin.     Forgive  me. 

Kal.     Who  wounded  you  ? 

Pust.  [grumbling] .  Who  could  attack  him  here  ?  He  must  have  done 
it  himself.  No  doubt  about  it!  And  here  is  the  pistol!  [He  takes  a 
pistol  from  his  coat  and  carefully  and  leisurely  examines  it.] 

Bas.     Is  that  you?     I  thought  it  was  Zamysloff,  —  I  thought  that 


MAXIM  GORKI  87 

Piotr  had.  —  [He  runs  away  and  shouts :]      Marya  Lvovna ! 

Shal.  [wrapped  in  a  plaid].     What  is  it?     What  happened? 

Kal.     Are  you  very  much  hurt? 

Rumin.     I  am  ashamed,  —  ashamed. 

Shal.    Perhaps  it  is  not  a  dangerous  wound? 

Rumin.  Take  me  away  from  here  —  I  do  not  wish  her  to  see  me. 
Do  take  me  elsewhere ! 

Kal.  [to  Shalimoff].  Go  on.  —  Call  some  one.  [Shalimoff  goes 
towards  Sussloff's  house.  People  are  running  about.  A  general  com- 
motion.    Marya,  Varvara,  Sonya,  and  Vlass  appear.] 

Marya.  Is  that  you  ?  What  a  pity !  Come,  Sonya,  help  me.  Take 
off  the  coat.     Don't  get  excited,  —  carefully ! 

Far.     Pavel  Sergueyevitch ! 

Rumin.  Forgive  me.  I  should  have  done  it  thoroughly,  —  but  when 
a  man's  heart  is  small  and  palpitates,  it  is  hard  to  hit  it.  — 

Far.     Why  did  you  do  it  ? 

Kal.  [to  Rumin,  shouting  hysterically].  It's  cruel.  [Bethinks  her- 
self.]     What  am  I  saying?     Forgive  me  ! 

Flass  [to  Kaleria].  Go  away,  go  away,  my  dear,  you  shouldn't  be 
here! 

[He  goes  towards  the  pines.  Men  are  running  about.  Sussloff, 
Colon,  without  hat  or  coat,  and  with  an  overcoat  thrown  over  his  shoulders, 
then  Zamysloff  and  Yulia.  Dudakoff,  disheveled  and  angry.  Olga 
timid  and  uneasy.] 

Marya.     Ah,  there  it  is !     Well,  that  isn't  serious ! 

Rumin.  People  are  coming  this  way.  Give  me  your  hand,  Varvara 
Michailovna. 

Far.     Why  did  you  do  it  ? 

Rumin.     I  love  you  —  I  can't  live  without  you ! 

Flass  [speaks  with  his  teeth  shut] .    The  deuce  take  you  with  your  love  ! 

Kal.  [screams].  Don't  you  dare!  You  should  not  treat  dying  men 
like  that! 

Marya  [to  Varvara].  You'd  better  go!  And  you,  sir,  please  be 
calm.     It's  a  trifling  wound.     Ah,  here's  the  doctor! 

Dud.  Is  he  wounded?  In  the  shoulder?  And  what  an  idea  to  aim 
at  the  shoulder?     You  should  have  aimed  at  the  left  side  or  the  head  —  if 


88  SUMMER-FOLK 

you  meant  to  do  it.  — 

Mary  a.     What  do  you  mean,  Kyrill  Akimovitch ! 

Dud.  That's  so!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  see  you  have  bandaged  it 
already.     Well,  they  can  carry  him  now. 

Bas.     Take  him  to  our  house,  —  don't  you  think  so,  Varya  ? 

Rumin.     There  is  no  need  of  carrying  me.     I  can  walk. 

Dud.     You  can  ?     So  much  the  better. 

Rumin  [he  sways  to  and  fro  as  he  walks.  Bassoff  and  Sussloff  sup- 
port him'].  There  it  is!  I  had  no  luck  in  living  and  none  in  dying.  I 
am  a  miserable  creature !      [He  is  led  into  the  house.] 

Yulia.     He  is  right. 

Zam.  [dolefully].     What  a  sad  comedy! 

Pust.  [to  Colon].     I  found  him. 

Colon.     All  right. 

Pust.     I  ought  to  get  something  for  a  drink ! 

Colon  [reprovingly].  You  should  be  more  disinterested.  [He  gives 
him  a  coin.] 

Pust.     Thank  you,  sir. 

Kal.  [to  Varvara].  Is  he  dying?  I  should  have  been  the  one  to  do 
it.     Don't  you  think  so,  Varya  ? 

Far.  Don't  talk!  [Hysterically.]  How  disgusting  we  all  are! 
And  why  ? 

Shal.  [to  Marya].     Is  his  wound  dangerous? 

Marya.     No. 

Shal.  Hm!  Not  a  pleasant  accident!  Allow  me,  Varvara  Mich- 
ailovna ! 

Var.  [shuddering].     What  is  it? 

Shal.     A  few  minutes  ago  you  heard  the  words  — 

[Bassoff,  Sussloff,  and  Dudakoff  come  out  of  the  house.] 

Bas.     We  laid  him  down  — 

Var.  Say  no  more.  —  I  don't  wish  to  hear  any  explanation.  I  hate 
you  all!     You  are  miserable  people!     Miserable  wretches! 

Vlass.  One  moment,  sister.  Let  me  explain :  You  are  all  masques  ! 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  try  to  tear  off  the  tatters  that  cover  your  lies  —  your 
vulgarity,  —  the  niggardliness  of  your  feelings  and  the  prostitution  of  your 
thoughts.      [Shalimoff,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  walks  off.] 


MAXIM  GORKI  89 

Marya.     Don't !     It's  useless ! 

Far.  No ;  let  them  listen !  I  have  dearly  paid  for  my  right  to  speak 
frankly.  They  have  distorted  my  soul,  poisoned  my  life.  Was  I  like  this 
formerly  ?  I  have  lost  my  faith.  —  I  believe  nothing.  —  I  have  no  energy 
—  nothing  to  live  for!     Was  I  like  this  before? 

Yulia.     I  can  say  the  same.     Indeed  I  can. 

Olga  [to  her  husband].  Look  at  Varvara  !  She  is  beside  herself  — 
she  looks  positively  wicked!      [Dudakoff  waives  his  wife  away.~\ 

Bas.  Don't,  Varya,  don't!  Can't  you  say  all  this  in  a  different  way? 
Is  it  worth  while  to  excite  yourself  for  this  Rumin?  What  if  he  is  an  idiot, 
is  it  worth  while  for  his  sake? 

Far.     Go  away,  Serguey ! 

Bas.     My  dear  friend! 

Far.  I  never  was  your  friend,  or  you  mine !  Never !  We  were  only 
man  and  wife !     Now,  we  are  strangers !     I  will  leave  you  now ! 

Bas.  Where  will  you  go?  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Varya? 
Saying  such  things  before  people,  on  the  street? 

[Sussloff  stands  still  in  the  rear,  at  the  stage. ~\ 

Far.     There  are  no  people  here. 

Marya.     Come,  Varya. 

Yulia.     Don't  interfere  !     Let  her  say  all  she  wants  to. 

Colon  [sadly].     How  sad  this  all  is! 

Kal.  [to  Marya]  .     What  does  it  all  mean  ? 

Marya.     Calm  yourself.     Help  me  to  get  her  away. 

Far.  Yes,  I  will  go,  far  away  from  here  where  all  is  rotting  around 
me.  Away  from  the  idlers !  I  want  to  live !  I  will  live  and  be  busy,  I 
will  do  something  to  harm  you.  I  will  oppose  you !  [She  looks  at  them 
and  shouts  desperately:]      I  curse  you  all !     I  curse  you  ! 

Flass.  That  will  do,  sister!  [He  takes  her  hand  and  leads  her 
away.] 

Bas.  [to  Shalimoff].     Why  don't  you  help  me  to  put  a  stop  to  this? 

Shal.  [smiling  calmly].  Give  her  a  glass  of  cold  water —  What 
else  can  you  do? 

Yulia  [approaches  Varvara].  How  glad  I  should  be  to  go  away 
also! 

Bas.     Varya !     Where  are  you  going?    You  are  doing  wrong,  Marya. 


9o  SUMMER-FOLK 

You  are  a  doctor  and  should  quiet  her. 

Marya.     Leave  me  alone. 

Colon  [to  Bassoff].  All  I  can  say,  is  that  you  are  an  innocent  ras- 
cal.     [He  follows  Varvara  and  Vlass  into  the  woods,  on  the  right.'] 

Kal.  [sobs~\.     And  what  is  to  become  of  me?    Where  am  I  to  go? 

Sony  a  [going  up  to  her] .      Come  to  us,  —  come  ! 

[She  takes  Kaleria's  arm  and  leads  her  away.] 

Ynlia.     Well,  Piotr  Ivanovitch,  let's  go  home  and  continue  our  life. 

Bas.  How's  that?  You  are  all  insane  today.  This  fool  of  a  Rumin  ! 
It's  all  owing  to  his  stupid  nerves!  Yakov,  why  don't  you  say  something? 
Why  do  you  laugh?  You  believe  they  are  not  in  earnest?  So  unexpected 
and  all  of  a  sudden  !  Bang !  And  everything  gone  to  the  devil !  What  is 
to  be  done,  now  ? 

Shal.  Calm  yourself,  my  friend.  This  is  only  rhetoric  on  history's 
soil,  —  believe  me!  [He  takes  Bassoff's  arm  and  leads  him  toward  the 
house.  Dudakoff,  with  his  arms  behind  his  back,  comes  out  of  the  house 
and  paces  slowly  towards  the  right.] 

Bas.     Deuce  take  it  all ! 

Shal.  [with  a  smirk] .  Calm  yourself.  You  see  the  Sussloffs  went  off 
to  continue  their  life.  —  Let  us,  also,  calmly  continue  ours. 

Olga.     Will  he  die,  Kyrill? 

Dud.  [gloomily].     No,  —  Come  on.  —  No  one  will  die. 

Shal.  Ah!  my  dear  friend,  all  this  —  the  people  and  all  that  happens 
to  them  is  so  meaningless!  So  insignificant!  Pour  me  out  some  wine! 
[The  faint  whistling  of  the  watchman  is  heard  in  the  distance.] 


DAS  TRUNKNE  LIED. 


By  Friedrich  Nietzsche 
Translated  from  the  German  by  William  Benjamin  Smith 


MAN!     Give  ear! 

What  saith  the  Midnight  deep  and  drear? 
'From  sleep,  from  sleep 
I  woke  and  from  a  dream  profound:  — 
The  world  is  deep, 
And  deeper  than  the  day  can  sound. 
Deep  is  its  woe,  — 

Joy  —  deeper  still  than  heart's  distress ; 
Woe  saith,  Forgo ! 
But  Joy  wills  Everlastingness, 
—  Wills  deep,  deep  Everlastingness!' 


Nietzsche  wrote: 

O  Mensch!     Gieb  Adit! 
Was  spricht  die  tiefe  Mitternacht? 
'  Ich  schlief,  ich  schlief  — , 
'  Aus  tiefem  Traum  bin  ich  erwacht : 
'  Die  Welt  ist  tief, 
'  Und  tiefer  als  der  Tag  gedacht. 
'  Tief  ist  ihr  Weh  — , 
'  Lust  —  tiefer  noch  als  Herzeleid : 
'  Weh  spricht :  Vergeh ! 
'  Doch  alle  Lust  will  Ewigkeit  — , 
'  —  will  tiefe,  tiefe  Ewigkeit!" 


Tille  translates: 

O  man!     Lose  not  sight! 
What  saith  the  deep  midnight? 

"  I  lay  in  sleep,  in  sleep ; 
From  deep  dream  I  woke  to  light. 
The  world  is  deep, 
And    deeper    than    ever    day    thought    it 

might. 
Deep  is  its  woe,  — 
And  deeper  still  than  woe  —  delight. 
Saith  woe:     '  Pass,  go! 
Eternity's  sought  by  all  delight,  — 
Eternity  deep  —  by  all  delight !  ' 


The  original  may  be  drunk,  Nietzsche  called  it  '  Das  trunkne  Lied,' 
but  Tille's  translation  is  not  only  '  drunk,'  it  is  also  '  disorderly.'  As  it 
cannot  be  locked  up  from  the  public,  here  is  a  corrective,  a  rendering  that 
does  not  gratuitously  smutch  the  brightest  gem  in  the  coronet  of  Nietzsche's 
fame. 


(90 


THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO 

VALDES 

By  S.  Griswold  Morley 

A  MADRID  bookseller  remarked  not  long  ago  that  the  novels 
of  Valdes  were  the  only  books  for  which  he  found  a  market 
in  the  United  States.  If  one  were  to  infer  from  that  sweeping 
statement  that  the  name  of  Valdes  is  widely  known  in  our 
country,  he  would  be  in  error.  Notwithstanding  the  kindly 
efforts  of  Mr.  Sylvester  Baxter  and  Mr.  Howells,  and  the 
fact  that  all  but  three  of  his  fifteen  novels  have  been  translated  into  English, 
Valdes  seems  to  be  still  a  stranger  to  the  general  reading  public  here.  His 
name  is  absent  from  the  pages  of  literary  reviews  in  which  Zola  and  d'An- 
nunzio  are  mentioned  half  a  dozen  times  a  month.  So  another  attempt  to 
render  it  more  familiar  can  hardly  be  out  of  place.  Moreover,  his  latest 
novel  is  prefaced  by  the  wish,  '  May  this  my  last  song  be  the  sweetest  of  all ; ' 
and  that  expression,  even  if  not  taken  literally,  lends  a  certain  color  of  time- 
liness to  a  review  of  his  work  at  this  moment. 

It  is  seldom  easy  for  a  Spanish  author  to  establish  a  popular  cult  out- 
side his  own  land,  Cervantes  being  the  great  exception.  In  general,  works 
coming  from  the  Iberian  peninsula  are  dipped  too  thoroughly  in  the  ex- 
treme nationalism  which  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  established  there  and  which 
has  been  the  basis  for  Spain's  strength  and  weakness  ever  since.  The  Span- 
iard's point  of  outlook  over  the  social  and  moral  world  is  seldom  ours,  and 
often  the  very  events  which  he  describes  are  so  strange  to  us  that  we  can 
hardly  credit  their  possibility.  Hence  perhaps  we  have  grown  wary  of 
Spanish  local  reputations,  and  hesitate  before  letting  ourselves  be  persuaded 
to  take  them  seriously. 

Such  reluctance  has  no  place  in  dealing  with  the  writings  of  Valdes. 
If  he  was  born  with  any  provinciality  it  has  disappeared  before  the  wider 
knowledge  of  the  traveler  and  philosopher.  He  is  not  a  blind  eulogist  of 
the  habits  of  his  countrymen;  neither  on  the  other  hand  does  he  use  his 
breadth  of  view  to  propagate  at  home  the  cause  of  liberty  and  education. 
He  enters  no  controversy  about  affairs  of  church  or  state,  he  has  been  the 
mover  in  no  political  revolutions;  he  is  content  merely  to  describe  the  lives 
of  men  and  women,  moving  in  a  frame  of  such  native  customs  as  possess 

(92) 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  93 

charm  and  interest  without  being  exotic.  On  account  of  his  very  modera- 
tion he  has  never  been  really  popular  at  home.  He  is  the  least  known  to 
his  compatriots  of  all  the  living  Spanish  novelists  of  the  front  rank.  Valera, 
the  half-mystic  philosopher  and  statesman,  Pereda,  the  pessimistic  ultra- 
montane, are  members  of  the  Spanish  Academy;  Perez  Galdos,  the  radical, 
has  in  addition  the  more  significant  honor  of  naming  a  street  in  Madrid; 
but  Valdes  remains  without  external  reward. 

The  fact  is  that  he  never  can  be  a  truly  popular  author  in  any  country. 
In  his  own  words,  '  Those  who  like  myself  hate  all  excess  will  never  find 
favor  with  the  public'  From  the  nature  of  his  work  the  lovers  of  it  must 
always  be  restricted  to  a  small  circle  of  those  who  are  willing  to  think  as 
they  read,  —  and  not  only  to  think,  but  to  ponder,  to  search  for  delicate 
beauties  in  the  middle  of  long  paragraphs,  to  read  with  appreciation  caress- 
ing descriptions  where  every  word  has  its  effect.  Valdes  sprinkles  the  dra- 
matic element  with  a  sparing  hand.  That  is  due  partly  to  his  system  of 
composition,  as  we  shall  see,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  inward  crises  interest 
him  more  than  outward  ones. 

His  novels  cannot  well  be  lumped  together  for  discussion.  Each  one 
has  its  peculiar  savor,  and  the  diverse  themes  include  life  among  laborers, 
high  society,  philosophy,  religion,  and  pure  emotion.  For  this  reason,  and 
in  order  to  point  out  the  gradual  changes  in  method  which  Valdes  has 
adopted,  it  is  almost  a  necessity  to  outline  the  books  in  their  chronological 
order.  The  method  is  '  academic,'  I  know;  so  are  President  Eliot's  speeches 
and  Beethoven's  second  symphony. 

The  first  novel,  El  Senorito  Octavio,  is  a  romantic  tale  of  illicit  love 
between  an  ill-treated  countess  and  her  majordomo,  complicated  by  the 
emotional  spasms  of  a  '  virtuoso  of  sensibility.'  No  doubt  the  author  had 
this  book  especially  in  mind  when  he  wrote  in  later  days,  with  characteristic 
self-scrutiny,  '  I  deplore  the  use  of  certain  theatrical  effects  in  some  of  my 
works.  When  I  wrote  them  I  did  not  give  ear  to  the  advice  of  the  muses, 
but  catered  to  the  depraved  taste  of  the  shallow  and  ignorant  public'  And 
yet,  although  El  Senorito  Octavio  betrays  the  youth  of  its  author  and  is  of 
small  significance  compared  to  his  later  work,  it  shows  fully  developed  at 
the  very  outset  his  fascinating  style  and  his  unerring  grasp  of  characters  and 
their  relations  to  each  other.  This  inborn  power  to  create  character  enables 
him  to  make  delightful  reading  out  of  many  a  flimsy  plot. 

Marta  y  Maria   (Martha  and  Mary),  the  second  novel,  is  as  well 


94  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

known  as  any  in  America.  More  modest  than  the  first  in  scope  and  more 
congenial  in  atmosphere,  it  is  wrought  out  with  a  perfection  of  detail  and 
sympathy  in  which  Valdes  peculiarly  excels,  and  which  may  be  called  the 
aerial  perspective  of  literature.  It  is  a  simple  story  of  a  few  honest  souls 
in  an  Asturian  coast-town,  without  more  excitement  than  a  dance,  a  picnic, 
and  a  Carlist  uprising  nipped  in  the  bud.  Ricardo,  the  young  marquis  of 
Penalta,  is  betrothed  to  Maria ;  but  her  terrestrial  affections  quickly  fade 
before  a  growing  mystic  love  for  Christ  and  his  church.  Her  sister  Marta 
meanwhile,  '  cumbered  about  much  serving,'  cherishes  a  silent  love  for 
Ricardo,  whereby  she  wins  him  at  last,  as  Maria  wins  her  way  to  a  convent. 
Merely  a  picture  of  sincere  hearts  drawn  their  several  ways,  the  whole  set 
in  relief  by  a  sweet  sensuousness  which  never  falls  to  sensuality;  but  Valdes 
has  not  written  anything  since  which  makes  a  closer  appeal  to  whole-hearted 
readers. 

It  matters  less  perhaps  that  he  points  to  a  reversal  of  the  Scriptural 
judgment  concerning  the  superiority  of  the  contemplative  to  the  active  life. 
Though  Mary  of  the  New  Testament  chose  the  better  part  in  sitting  at 
Jesus'  feet,  Valdes  indicates  plainly  enough  that  he  considers  household 
labors  of  more  service  in  this  particular  instance.  Maria,  an  enraptured 
mystic,  intent  only  upon  worship,  saddens  her  lover,  breaks  her  father's 
heart,  kills  her  mother,  with  serene  confidence  in  the  rectitude  of  her  aims. 
Marta  goes  about  binding  up  the  wounds  dealt  by  her  sister,  without  ever 
pausing  to  ask  herself  if  her  energies  are  being  directed  toward  the  greatest 
development  of  her  spiritual  nature.  Never  was  the  imposing  selfishness 
of  religiosity  contrasted  more  sharply  with  the  sublime  religion  of  a  useful 
life.  There  is,  of  course,  another  side  to  the  shield,  and  that  was  displayed 
afterwards  in  La  Fe. 

Valdes  has  been  called  the  leader  of  the  French  naturalistic  school  in 
Spain,  but  such  a  label  is  unjust  to  him.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  French  natur- 
alism stands  to  us  for  the  representation  of  man  in  his  brute  nature  alone, 
and  Valdes  always  prefers  to  emphasize  the  spiritual  values.  He  is  a  nat- 
uralist only  so  far  as  that  means  that  he  does  not  willingly  put  any  scene  upon 
his  canvas  which  Nature  could  disown.  It  is  true  that  he  has  been  led  at 
times  into  a  Gallicism  foreign  to  his  nature.  El  Idilio  de  tin  Enfermo 
(An  Invalid's  Idyll)  is  the  book  which  exhibits  the  tendency  most  clearly. 
An  anemic  young  man  plunges  into  the  country  in  search  of  health,  and 


S.  GR1SWOLD  MORLEY  95 

whiles  away  his  enforced  vacation  by  beguiling  a  farmer's  daughter.  The 
story  is  marvelously  well  told,  and  is  a  beautiful  tribute  to  the  glories  of 
nature  among  the  Asturian  hills,  but  it  exhales  an  unhealthy  odor,  which 
I  am  sure  must  later  have  become  unpleasant  to  its  author's  nostrils.  Valdes 
never  at  any  time  in  his  career  hesitates  to  describe  the  working  of  man's 
lower  instincts  when  it  lies  in  his  path,  and  he  does  it  with  a  healthy  frank- 
ness which  contrasts  sharply  with  the  morbid  gloating  of  d'Annunzio  and 
his  like;  but  his  favorite  province  is  on  a  higher  level.  Far  from  being  a 
disciple  of  the  French  school,  he  expresses  disgust  for  it  in  plain  language. 
In  the  essay  on  novel-writing  prefixed  to  Los  Majos  de  Cadiz  he  writes : 
'  It  is  enough  to  glance  impartially  at  certain  recent  well-known  French 
novels,  which  describe  life  in  the  country  and  in  mining  communities,  to  be 
convinced  that  their  author  has  not  honestly  described  what  he  has  witnessed, 
but  has  with  transparent  artifice  raked  together  into  one  community  all  the 
crime,  obscenity,  and  horrors  that  he  has  read  of  in  the  newspapers  for  sev- 
eral years,  which  happened  in  the  various  departments  of  France.  On  the 
other  hand,  in  certain  German,  English,  and  Spanish  novels  dealing  with 
rural  life  there  is  found  nothing  but  honesty,  purity,  and  happiness.  This 
is  even  more  false.  .  .  .  With  all  respect  to  both  parties,  I  believe  that 
to  depict  life  as  it  really  is  we  must  expel  anger  from  our  hearts, 
rid  ourselves  of  all  restless  yearning,  and  observe  it  without  prejudice.'  Ab- 
solute sincerity,  then,  is  the  goal  at  which  Valdes  aims,  and  he  almost  always 
reaches  it. 

Jose,  the  fourth  novel,  is  an  unpretentious  story  of  life  in  a  fishing  vil- 
lage, which  has  already  been  translated  into  six  languages.  Its  popularity 
is  due  to  its  simple  charm  and  wide  appeal.  As  Marta  y  Maria  dealt  with 
middle-class  scenes,  Jose  depicts  with  close  fidelity  the  humbler  sorrows  and 
aspirations  of  those  whose  daily  bread  is  won  by  toil.  Work  is  the  key- 
note of  the  book;  work  to  catch  fish,  and  then  to  sell  them  at  a  fair  price, 
work  to  wrest  life  from  wind  and  water;  Jose  must  struggle  to  win  a  liveli- 
hood from  nature,  and  to  win  his  sweetheart  from  her  niggardly  mother. 
Yet  the  whole  is  not  depressing,  for  one  feels  a  glory  in  labor  in  the  open, 
with  opportunity  to  see,  and  fight,  and  accomplish.  The  simple  pleasures 
earned  are  all  the  sweeter.  Mr.  Howells  has  rightly  criticised  certain  exag- 
gerations in  the  book,  which  mar  its  perfection  somewhat,  but  not  enough 
to  prevent  it  from  ranking  well  in  a  modest  class. 


96  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

At  this  point  in  the  novelist's  career  a  change  in  his  method  begins  to 
be  apparent.  Thus  far  his  stories  have  been  somewhat  restricted  in  scope; 
they  deal  with  few  characters  and  the  scenes  are  all  laid  in  Asturias,  the 
northern  province  where  Valdes  was  born.  Henceforth  the  circle  covered 
is  enlarged;  the  ground  includes  the  whole  of  Spain,  from  Madrid  to  Valen- 
cia, from  Cadiz  to  Dijon.  From  unraveling  the  secrets  of  a  few  obscure 
hearts  he  branches  out  with  set  purpose  to  offer  something  like  a  compre- 
hensive view  of  the  life  and  manners  of  all  Spain.  It  is  not  by  chance  that 
a  bull-fight  is  described  in  one  book,  a  tobacco-factory  in  another,  a  romeria 
in  a  third.  Most  Spanish  novelists  like  to  style  themselves  '  painters  of 
customs  ';  some  of  them  are  nothing  else;  and  Valdes,  too,  lays  on  the  local 
color  with  a  full  brush  at  times. 

He  states  his  literary  creed  as  follows :  '  The  novel  partakes  of  the 
nature  of  the  drama  and  of  the  epic,  but  is,  in  my  opinion,  more  like  the  sec- 
ond. Accordingly,  it  is  not  requisite  that  in  it  the  action  should  progress 
rapidly  to  a  close,  as  in  the  drama,  without  ever  turning  aside;  on  the  con- 
trary it  may  proceed  slowly,  stopping  frequently  to  relate  episodes  or  describe 
places  and  customs,  like  an  epic  poem.'  There  is  no  reason  to  discuss  the 
value  of  this  theory  of  the  novel,  which  doubtless  is  as  good  as  another;  yet 
when  I  have  heard  a  reader  of  Valdes  exclaim,  'Ah,  but  his  plots  are  no 
good ! '  I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether  he  was  not  unconsciously  trans- 
lating the  above-quoted  prescription  into  plain  English.  At  any  rate,  as 
Valdes  applies  it  in  this  second  period  of  his  development,  it  means  that  plots 
are,  rather  than  worthless,  non-existent.  Such  books  as  Riverita,  Maximina, 
and  La  Espuma,  with  all  their  qualities  of  charm  and  depth,  are  nothing 
but  collections  of  mild  adventures  hung  on  a  thread  of  one  or  two  lives. 
One  can  hardly  detect  in  them  anything  like  the  statement  of  a  problem  and 
its  solution;  instead  there  are  descriptions  of  characters,  more  descriptions 
of  characters,  and  then  a  relation  of  some  of  their  actions  in  their  several 
spheres. 

For  the  average  reader  there  is  nothing  more  tedious  than  to  wade 
through  the  solid  pages  which  are  intended  to  acquaint  him  thoroughly  with 
the  physical  appearance,  mental  and  moral  characteristics,  and  past  history 
of  the  personages  who  come  upon  the  scene.  He  skips  those  pages  or  com- 
passes them  according  as  he  considers  the  author's  thoughts  more  or  less 
worth  getting  at.     Take  as  a  random  example  of  description,  neither  the 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  97 

best  nor  worst,  the  following  from  La  Espuma: 

4  In  spite  of  his  striking  and  somewhat  weatherbeaten  face  and  his 
martial  bearing,  General  Patirio  was  a  counterfeit  veteran.  His  promotions 
had  been  won  without  a  drop  of  bloodshed.  First  instructor  in  military 
science  to  a  person  of  royal  blood ;  then  a  member  of  several  scientific  com- 
missions, and  lastly  employed  in  the  War  Office,  cultivating  the  friendship 
of  all  the  politicians;  representative  several  times;,  senator  at  last  and  mem- 
ber of  the  highest  military  court;  he  had  never  been  on  a  battle-field  except 
once  when  pursuing  a  rebel  general,  and  that  with  the  firm  intention  never 
to  catch  him.  .  .  .  He  subscribed  to  two  or  three  scientific  reviews;  he 
quoted  German  names  in  public  when  his  profession  was  alluded  to;  but 
the  truth  is  that  the  reviews  always  remained  unopened  on  his  dressing-table, 
and  the  German  names,  though  well  pronounced,  were  only  empty  sounds 
upon  his  lips.' 

This  is  graphic,  humorous,  well  done  in  short;  but  it  continues  through 
four  pages,  and  the  person  in  question  is  one  of  the  least  important  in  the 
book.  What  shall  the  reader  do,  then,  when  a  full  quarter  of  a  novel  is 
taken  up  by  such  presentation  of  its  characters,  many  of  whom  drop  subse- 
quently out  of  sight?  Valdes  is  led  to  such  excesses  primarily  by  his  great 
power  of  grasping  and  isolating  a  character.  Like  Dickens  and  Balzac,  he 
finds  it  hard  to  choose  from  the  abundance  of  figures  which  press  about  his 
brain ;  and  when  he  discovered  his  strength  he  did  not  for  a  time  control  it. 
Then,  too,  he  enters  with  such  affectionate  insight  into  the  lives  of  his  crea- 
tions that  he  cannot  bear  to  have  his  readers  misconceive  them;  and  so  he 
is  lured  along  indefinitely  from  one  illuminating  touch  to  another.  There 
is  only  one  better  way  to  present  character,  —  by  action. 

We  must  hasten  to  modify  such  harsh  strictures  by  pointing  out  that 
these  same  novels  are  full  of  the  greatest  beauties.  What  they  lack  in  sweep 
they  make  up  in  intimate  revelation  of  the  heart.  Riverita  and  its  sequel 
Maximina  are  a  perfect  mine  of  interesting  observations.  It  is  the  fashion 
to  read  only  Maximina,  for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  character  of  the  heroine, 
but  it  is  a  great  mistake.  The  two  are  not  separate  stories,  but  merely 
halves  of  the  same  one,  and  they  should  never  be  disjoined.  Together  they 
form  a  real  epic  of  a  man's  life.  We  witness  with  involuntary  sympathy  the 
growth  from  childhood  of  this  native  of  Madrid,  Miguel  Rivera,  so  frank, 
so  clear-sighted,  and  so  human.     We  meet  his  companions  good  and  bad, 

7 


98  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

his  teachers  wise  and  foolish ;  we  see  the  adverse  conditions  which  affect  his 
growth,  and  behold  as  with  our  own  eyes  his  slips  back  and  his  leaps  toward 
an  ideal,  his  small  heart-burnings  and  his  absorbing  passions.  And  when 
Riverita  has  run  his  thorny  course  to  the  end,  after  a  brief  space  of  happi- 
ness with  his  noble  wife,  out  of  so  many  rude  shocks  '  he  learned,  never  to 
forget  it,  the  sublime  truth  which  to  all  eternity  will  soar  above  human 
knowledge  and  sum  up  all  truths,  self-denial.'  I  wish  I  could  quote  all  of 
those  fine  closing  pages  of  Maximina,  for  they  show  better  than  any  others 
how  admirably  Valdes  has  given  expression  to  the  broadest  aspirations  of 
the  human  race. 

He  has  too  keen  an  eye  for  foibles  to  fall  into  sentimentality,  even  in 
this  most  intimate  of  all  his  writings,  but  we  do  not  need  his  statement  that 
Maximina  is  a  portrait  of  his  wife,  for  we  feel  instinctively  that  Rivera  is 
Valdes  himself.  No  other  character  in  all  his  work  is  drawn  with  such  sym- 
pathy, and  no  other  so  embodies  that  spirit  of  subtle  satire  against  human 
futilities  combined  with  deep  reverence  for  the  sacred  things  of  life,  which 
is  the  spirit  of  Valdes  himself. 

To  this  middle  manner,  in  which  the  sluggish  flow  of  the  story  is  broken 
up  by  a  set  purpose  to  describe  local  customs,  belong  a  number  of  novels  of 
more  or  less  importance.  El  Cuarto  Poder  (The  Fourth  Estate,  The  Power 
of  the  Press)  might  be  divided  into  two  separate  books,  having  no  necessary 
connection  with  each  other.  On  one  side  stands  the  story  of  an  unreason- 
ing, all-powerful  love,  which  brings  sorrow  and  destruction  to  those  who  are 
by  chance  bound  to  it.  It  is  a  brilliant  piece  of  work  in  every  way;  the 
three  chief  characters  are  vividly  real;  Cecilia  in  particular,  the  type  of  the 
true  woman,  loving  and  suffering  in  silence,  is  a  figure  which  deserves  to 
stand  out  long  in  literature.  On  the  other  side  is  a  satirical  description,  in 
strokes  broad  even  to  caricature,  of  a  Spanish  provincial  town  and  its  ludi- 
crous efforts  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times.  Each  half  is  excellent  in  its  way, 
but  there  is  a  lack  of  connection  between  the  two  which  seems  quite  un- 
necessary. One  could  almost  go  through  the  volume  picking  out  every  other 
chapter,  and  hold  in  one  hand  a  complete  love-story,  and  in  the  other  a 
society  satire !  As  in  the  Italian  epics,  the  author  spins  one  thread  up  to  a 
certain  point,  and  leaves  it  hanging  while  he  departs  to  perform  a  like  office 
for  another  strand  of  his  multiple  cord. 

If  this  be  a  defect,  —  and  the  subsequent  change  in  his  method  indicates 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  99 

that  he  considered  it  such  later  on,  —  it  is  not  the  result  of  haste  or  careless- 
ness, but  of  the  theory  which  he  held  at  that  time.  It  was  much  later  that 
he  praised  the  '  Daphnis  and  Chloe '  of  Longus  above  all  other  novels,  and 
said,  '  I  aspire  to  no  other  fame  in  my  art  than  to  be  called  a  humble  fol- 
lower of  that  immortal  work.'  The  '  Daphnis  and  Chloe  '  represents  above 
all  absolute  unity  and  continuity.  It  does  not  contain  a  paragraph  which 
does  not  deal  directly  with  the  fortunes  of  the  hero  and  heroine,  although 
many  charming  glimpses  of  pastoral  life  are  introduced  through  them.  So 
that  Valdes  could  hardly  have  called  himself  a  disciple  of  Longus  at  the 
time  when  he  wrote  El  Citarto  Poder. 

Beside  his  lengthy  descriptions,  however,  he  has  a  gift  which  is  really 
independent  of  mere  local  color;  that  is,  the  inestimable  ability  to  throw 
about  each  of  his  stories  its  own  atmosphere,  into  which  the  reader  enters 
at  the  first  page,  and  from  which  he  never  emerges  till  the  last  is  reached. 
He  has  '  the  power  to  create  a  mood,'  as  Symonds  said  of  the  painter  Luini. 
That  mood,  not  to  be  confounded  with  the  personality  of  the  writer,  varies 
at  will  with  admirable  subtlety.  Thus,  /  Puritani,  the  gem  of  the  collection 
of  short  stories  called  Aguas  fuertes  (Etchings),  is  redolent  of  dead  rose- 
leaves,  of  that  delicate  regret  for  lost  youth  expressed  so  perfectly  in  some 
of  the  poems  of  Ronsard.  In  the  little  northern  fishing  village  of  Rodillero, 
where  the  scene  of  Jose  is  laid,  incessant  labor  against  odds  is  the  keynote; 
the  scant  enjoyment  of  life  is  closely  bound  up  with  daily  toil.  In  La 
Hermana  San  Sulpicio  (Sister  Saint  Sulpice) ,  a  story  of  sunny  Seville,  where 
roses  bloom  the  whole  year  round,  merry  leisure  gives  room  for  the  devel- 
opment of  pure  emotion. 

The  steadfast  loves  of  the  bewitching  Sister  and  the  Galician  poet  are 
but  a  pretext  to  present  an  unequaled  picture  of  southern  Spain,  —  the  Spain 
of  romance,  of  the  guitar  and  olive  tree,  which  enjoys  fame  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  its  geographical  extent.  This  enchanted  air  seems  itself  to  supply 
means  of  subsistence  without  forethought  on  the  part  of  man,  and  the 
gay  out-of-door  existence  seems  to  admit  no  misfortunes;  we  can  hardly  be 
persuaded  to  take  seriously  the  shadowy  catastrophes  which  threaten  the 
lovers  now  and  then.  Not  that  the  book  suffers  from  the  nauseating  sweet- 
ness of  U Abbe  Constantin,  for  example;  it  is  too  lively  a  representation  of 
an  actual  city  for  that;  but  one  feels  from  the  outset  the  demand  of  luxuriant 
nature  herself  that  this  true-hearted  Galician,  slow  yet  astute,  shall  win  his 


ioo  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

charming  Gloria,  —  and  incidentally  her  fortune,  for  Sanjurjo,  like  every 
good  gallego,  reserves  for  business  a  corner  of  his  brain  which  even  love 
cannot  fill. 

From  such  a  field  of  light-hearted  enjoyment  among  common  folk 
Valdes  turned,  as  if  to  emphasize  his  versatility,  to  another  sphere  and  more 
doubtful  pleasures.  La  Espuma  (Froth)  is  professedly  a  picture  of  life  in 
the  Madrid  aristocracy,  —  that  assemblage  of  noble  degenerates  and  rich 
parvenus  which  has  so  little  connection  with  the  real  vitality  of  Spain. 
Valdes  has  been  accused  of  treating  in  this  book  a  society  in  which  he  never 
moved  and  which  therefore  he  could  not  but  misrepresent.  That  is  a 
matter  which  I  cannot  pass  upon ;  my  closest  approach  to  the  upper  circles 
of  Spain  is  an  acquaintance  with  a  Provengal  gentleman  whose  cousin  was 
the  French  ambassador  to  the  court  of  Portugal.  What  is  fairly  clear, 
however,  is  that  the  society  as  painted,  whether  it  be  faithful  to  the  life  or 
imaginary,  is  rotten  through  and  through,  and  furthermore  that  the  novel 
is  unsatisfactory.  As  regards  the  first  point,  there  is  hardly  a  decent  char- 
acter in  this  gallery  of  high  society  luminaries,  not  to  say  an  honest  or  a 
noble  one.  For  the  second,  the  book  is  scarcely  more  than  a  loose  collection 
of  anecdotes  or  a  description  of  scandalous  habits.  There  is  small  trace  of 
anything  resembling  a  story;  a  protracted  exposition  crowded  with  de- 
scriptions leads  to  a  hurried  end  which  is  rather  a  cessation,  leaving  many 
threads  unknotted.  One  chapter  offers  a  glimpse  at  the  life  of  workers 
in  a  quicksilver  mine,  by  way  of  demonstrating  somewhat  baldly  the  dis- 
parity between  labor  and  reward  in  this  base  world.  The  characters  are 
drawn  with  our  author's  accustomed  skill,  and  the  banker  Salabert  makes  a 
strong  central  figure  for  the  throng  of  money-worshippers,  yet  the  defects 
of  the  work  overshadow  its  excellences.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  only  novel  of 
Valdes  which  bears  distinct  marks  of  haste. 

From  such  an  unsatisfactory  treatment  of  an  ignoble  subject  we  pass 
to  something  powerful  and  lofty.  La  Fe  (Faith),  though  it  has  some  of 
the  defects  which  I  have  pointed  out  in  other  works  of  this  middle  stage,  is 
the  most  significant  of  any  for  the  study  of  its  author's  attitude  toward  life, 
and  the  one  which  most  clearly  disproves  the  inconceivably  misleading  state- 
ment of  an  English  critic,  that  Valdes  has  surrendered  his  nationality  to 
French  naturalism.  The  book  is  nothing  else  than  a  confession  of  faith, 
told  through  the  soul-experiences  of  Father  Gil. 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  101 

This  young  priest,  fresh  from  the  theological  seminary,  is  satisfied  at 
first  with  his  charities  and  with  the  beliefs  which  have  been  taught  him. 
Then  he  meets  a  hardened  skeptic,  a  man  of  fine  character  and  learning  far 
superior  to  his  own,  who  awakens  in  him  doubts  never  before  dreamt  of. 
Once  put  upon  the  track  of  investigation,  Father  Gil  is  sufficiently  honest 
with  himself  to  pursue  it  as  far  as  it  can  lead  him.  He  studies  science,  and 
its  answer  seems  to  him  unbearable;  philosophy,  and  its  reasonings  are  in- 
adequate and  contradictory;  he  turns  in  despair  to  his  superiors  in  the  church, 
and  meets  the  old  familiar  sophistries,  now  appearing  childish.  During  this 
psychological  development  the  position  of  Father  Gil  in  the  town  has 
changed.  His  colleagues  disliked  him  from  the  first,  instinctively  envying 
his  intelligence  and  disinterestedness;  now  their  enmity  finds  its  opportunity. 
Seizing  upon  a  fatal  indiscretion  of  the  priest  and  the  false  accusation  of  a 
slighted  woman,  they  bring  Father  Gil  to  court  upon  a  terrible  charge;  he 
is  found  guilty  and  condemned  to  a  long  imprisonment.  But  this  over- 
whelming misfortune,  greater  than  those  which  had  permanently  embittered 
his  friend  the  materialist,  leaves  Father  Gil  serene  and  glad,  for  at  the  very 
moment  of  his  accusation  he  has  found  that  point  of  support  in  life  which 
he  had  so  long  sought  in  vain.  He  has  found  it  in  Faith;  not  Faith  in  any 
creed  or  book  or  theory,  but  Faith  based  upon  the  inborn  impulse  of  man's 
heart,  which  says  of  one  thing,  This  is  sublime,  and  of  another,  That  is 
base.  This  Faith  triumphs  over  trials  and  over  reason.  '  The  judge  was 
far  from  suspecting  that,  as  he  entered  the  prison,  the  vicar  of  Penascosa 
had  just  been  released  from  the  dungeons  of  skepticism.  .  .  .  Behind  this 
apparent  life  which  surrounds  us  he  saw  the  real  life,  the  infinite  life,  and 
he  entered  upon  it  with  a  heart  brimming  over  with  joy.  .  .  .  This  is 
the  life  of  the  spirit.  The  world  cannot  change  it  nor  time  destroy  it,  for 
it  is  the  very  essence  of  time  and  the  world.' 

This  novel  has  given  offense  to  some  of  the  theologians.  Evidently, 
it  is  not  narrowly  orthodox,  but  it  seems  as  if  one  must  be  strangely  creed- 
bound  who  can  fail  to  find  it  a  source  of  inspiration.  It  is  an  indication  of 
the  stylistic  power  of  Valdes  that  he  can  write  a  novel  full  of  philosophy  and 
mysticism  and  yet  carry  the  reader  with  him  in  ever-tightening  grip,  so  that 
the  psychical  crisis  has  an  absorbing  interest  wholly  apart  from  the  course 
of  material  events. 

Valdes  is  not  such  a  shallow  writer  that  we  have  a  right  to  regard  the 


io2  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

opinions  of  any  of  his  personages  as  his  own,  however  much  sympathy  he 
reveals  for  them.  Like  every  true  artist,  he  reserves  the  right  to  emphasize 
now  one  side  of  his  personality,  now  another.  So  if  the  refined  idealism  of 
Father  Gil  seem  to  us  practical  Americans  a  bit  purposeless,  we  must  remem- 
ber that  it  is  only  the  proper  pendant  to  the  exaltation  of  Works  which  was 
given  expression  in  Marta  y  Maria.  The  sovereign  quality  of  La  Fe  may 
be  defined  in  words  used  by  a  great  Spanish  critic  in  another  connection :  it 
is  that  '  kind  of  ethical  beauty  which  does  not  always  coincide  with  artistic 
beauty,  but  which  at  times  reaches  that  imperceptible  point  at  which  moral 
emotion  becomes  a  source  of  aesthetic  emotion.' 

Up  to  this  point  extends  what  I  have  called  Valdes'  middle  style,  — 
that  in  which  description  of  characters  and  customs  almost  smothers  plot. 
In  the  same  class,  though  chronologically  later,  belongs  El  Origen  del  Pen- 
samiento  (The  Origin  of  Thought),  which  first  appeared  in  abbreviated 
form  as  a  serial  in  The  Cosmopolitan.  The  book  is  bipartite,  like  El  Cuarto 
Poder;  it  unites  a  love-story  of  no  special  interest  and  a  satire  on  pedantic 
science.  The  lesson  which  the  author  intends  to  convey  is  expressed  in  too 
particular  terms  to  have  a  very  universal  application,  and  a  few  eloquent 
pages  at  the  close  hardly  suffice  to  raise  the  general  level  of  merit  above  that 
which  Valdes'  character-drawing  always  reaches.  Add  to  its  native  faults 
the  alien  sin  of  expurgation,  and  it  is  evident  that  Valdes  was  introduced  to 
the  American  magazine-reading  public  in  the  least  favorable  way. 

With  El  Maestrante  ('  The  Grandee  ')  Valdes  begins  to  gain  real  mas- 
tery of  the  vast  material  which  his  ability  to  conceive  distinct  characters 
places  at  his  disposal,  and  which  so  far  had  tended  to  swamp  his  writings. 
He  digests  better  his  matter,  and  substitutes  action  for  description  to  a  cer- 
tain extent.  Moreover,  in  El  Maestrante  he  has  had  the  luck  to  hit  upon 
a  theme  of  genuine  power.  '  So  thoroughly  do  I  believe  in  the  importance 
of  the  theme  chosen  for  a  work,'  writes  Valdes,  '  that  a  fine  and  worthy  sub- 
ject is  the  greatest  piece  of  good  fortune  which  an  artist  can  come  upon  in 
his  life;  it  is  a  real  gift  of  the  gods.'  No  doubt  he  speaks  from  his  own  ex- 
perience, since  it  is  as  story-teller  that  he  is  weakest;  but  for  once  the  gods 
were  gracious  to  him.  He  has  found  a  subject  both  strong  and  unhack- 
neyed, taken  apparently  from  the  annals  of  some  society  for  the  prevention 
of  cruelty  to  children. 

El  Maestrante  differs  much  from  such  a  philosophical  study  as  La  Fe, 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  103 

or  such  a  rambling  description  of  society  as  La  Espuma.  It  is  a  swift, 
straightforward  tragedy  of  pure  human  passion,  drawn  against  the  clear 
but  not  obtrusive  background  of  a  provincial  city.  Illicit  love  brings  with 
it  unbridled  jealousy,  and  that  sweeps  inexorably  on  to  punishment,  awful 
in  that  it  falls  heaviest  upon  one  innocent.  This  novel  gives  an  impression 
of  power  lacking  in  all  the  rest.  It  has  not  the  symmetry  and  serene  per- 
fection of  La  Alegria  del  Capitan  Ribot,  but  it  possesses  a  certain  jagged, 
irregular  beauty  of  its  own. 

In  Los  Majos  de  Cadiz  (the  title  is  untranslatable,  but  it  has  been  called 
The  Gallants  of  Cadiz)  we  have  a  novel  not  conspicuous  in  any  way,  except 
that  in  it  Valdes  continues  his  new-found  ability  to  reproduce  manners  with- 
out overloaded  description.  Here  the  art  is  the  more  striking  since  the 
book  is  avowedly  a  picture  of  a  certain  class  of  Andalusian  society,  —  a 
layer  which  might  be  classified  somewhere  between  the  petite  bourgeoisie 
and  the  day  laborers.  A  simple  story  with  few  actors  suffices  to  present  a 
better  image  of  it  than  some  previous  ill-digested  volumes  succeeded  in  con- 
veying by  pages  of  description  and  a  multiplicity  of  personages. 

La  Alegria  del  Capitan  Ribot  (The  Joy  of  Captain  Ribot)  is  of  far 
different  importance.  It  would  be  superfluous  to  lavish  praises  upon  this 
charming  novel,  when  Mr.  Howells  has  already  done  it  with  such  authority 
and  skill.  It  is  the  fine  flower  of  the  achievement  of  Valdes;  it  exhibits  all 
his  best  qualities  with  none  of  his  defects.  The  plot  is  not  novel,  perhaps, 
but  the  actors  are  so  human,  the  interest  awakened  so  lively  and  intimate, 
the  action  is  so  concentrated,  the  atmosphere  of  Valencia,  '  land  of  flowers,' 
so  well  conveyed,  that  it  is  hard  to  judge  the  book  from  the  standpoint  of 
an  outsider;  one  feels  himself  drawn  into  the  circle  as  if  a  witness  of  real  life. 

The  story  of  Captain  Ribot  might  well  serve  as  a  model  of  character- 
growth  in  literature.  In  the  first  chapter  his  ruling  passion  seems  to  be  a 
fondness  for  tripe,  as  cooked  by  Seflora  Ramona.  This  appetite  pales  be- 
fore the  attractions  of  a  married  woman,  Cristina  Marti,  and  occasional 
over-indulgence  in  cognac  leads  him  to  express  his  passion  in  a  manner  not 
at  all  ideal.  But  circumstances  bring  out  the  real  nobility  of  his  character 
as  his  acquaintance  with  the  Marti  family  becomes  more  intimate.  His 
affection  for  Cristina  rises  to  a  higher  plane,  and  at  the  end  we  see  him 
rejoicing  in  the  pure  love  of  her  child.  Thus  the  joy  of  Captain  Ribot 
passes  in  a  rising  scale  from  the  lowest  physical  desire  to  the  most  unselfish 


io4  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

love  known  to  man,  that  for  a  child.  If  anyone  imagines  that  the  moral 
lies  vulgarly  patent  upon  the  surface  of  the  book,  let  him  read  it,  and  in 
reading  find  the  story  so  absorbing  that  he  will  need  to  think  twice  before  he 
perceives  its  real  significance.  So  far  removed  is  the  ethical  teaching  of 
Valdes  from  the  '  east  wind  '  type  of  sermonizing. 

It  is  not  easy,  even  if  we  should  wish  it,  to  cast  a  coldly  critical  glance 
at  a  work  in  which  the  author  frankly  throws  himself  at  our  mercy.  Such 
is  La  Aldea  perdida  (The  Ruined  Village),  published  in  1903,  latest  and 
perhaps  last  product  of  Valdes'  pen.  He  entitles  it  a  '  novel-poem,'  and  in 
truth  it  is  a  heroic  epic  in  prose,  cast  within  the  limits  of  a  country  village. 
It  is  a  reconstruction  of  the  author's  youthful  memories,  as  we  are  told  in 
an  impassioned  preface,  and  the  heroes  and  villains,  unvarying  in  their  might, 
loom  up  through  the  mist  of  past  years  in  a  kind  of  mock-Homeric  grandeur. 
They  are  to  be  enjoyed,  not  criticised,  these  accounts  of  epic  battles  between 
the  youths  of  Entralgo  and  the  youths  of  Rivota,  in  which  knotty  cudgels 
descend  on  unprotected  heads  with  surprisingly  mild  results.  Such  scenes 
of  primitive  freedom  and  others  more  peaceful  are  the  outward  manifesta- 
tions of  pastoral  bliss  in  the  spot  where  Valdes  was  born,  and  to  which  he 
looks  back  longingly. 

'  Yes,  I,  too,  was  born  and  lived  in  Arcadia !  I,  too,  knew  what  it  was 
to  walk  in  holy  innocence  of  heart  through  shady  groves,  to  bathe  in  limpid 
brooks,  to  tread  under  foot  a  carpet  ever  green.  .  .  .  The  cow-bells 
tinkled;  the  cattle  lowed;  we  boys  and  girls  walked  behind  the  herd  singing 
in  chorus  some  old  ballad.  Upon  earth  all  was  peace;  in  the  air  all  love. 
Dear  little  spot,  so  well  hidden !  And  yet,  men  thirsty  for  wealth 
saw  thee.  Armed  with  picks  they  fell  upon  thee,  and  tore  thy  virgin  bosom 
and  profaned  thy  spotless  beauty.'  Rich  deposits  of  coal  brought  upon 
Entralgo  a  railroad,  miners,  blasphemy,  and  crime,  —  the  improvements  of 
civilization.  Civilization !  At  the  fatal  end  an  old  nobleman,  a  lover  of 
Greek  culture,  exclaims,  '  You  say  that  civilization  is  beginning.  /  tell  you 
that  savagery  is  beginning! ' 

It  would  be  unfair  to  do  more  than  point  out  how  unconvincing  is  this 
pessimism,  so  rare  in  Valdes.  How  far  is  this  laudator  temporis  acti,  rapt 
in  memories,  from  the  keen  satirist  of  the  old  order  in  La  Espuma  and  El 


S.  GRTSWOLD  MORLEY  105 

Cuarto  Poder!  The  melodramatic  plot,  the  personages,  Demetria,  Flora, 
Pluto,  half  allegorical  in  essence  as  in  name,  what  havoc  the  scalpel  of 
Valdes  the  literary  critic  would  make  with  them  if  it  were  applied!  I  leave 
to  others  the  ungrateful  task.  It  is  pleasanter  to  enter  whole-heartedly  into 
Arcadia  with  the  novelist-poet,  and  listen  to  his  lyrical  admiration  of  nature. 
Far,  far  back  in  the  depths  of  his  artistic  consciousness,  behind  his  theories 
and  his  training,  Valdes  is  a  subjective  and  emotional  writer;  and  when  he 
chooses,  fully  conscious  of  his  act,  to  loose  the  rein  with  which  he  is  wont  to 
hold  himself  within  the  bounds  of  restrained  art,  we  may  trust  him  to  express 
his  own  excuse  and  deliver  judgment  upon  himself. 

'  O  valley  of  Laviana !  O  pure  streams !  O  green  fields  and  thick 
chestnut-groves  !  How  I  loved  you  !  Let  your  perfumed  breath  caress  my 
brow  an  instant,  let  the  mysterious  echo  of  your  voices  still  ring  in  my  ears, 
let  me  again  see  before  my  eyes  the  radiant  forms  of  those  beings  who  shared 
the  pleasures  of  my  childhood.  I  am  about  to  give  you  the  parting  kiss 
and  cast  you  into  the  whirlpool  of  the  world.  My  breast  is  oppressed,  my 
hand  trembles.  A  secret  voice  tells  me  that  you  ought  never  to  leave  the 
recesses  of  my  heart.' 

Valdes,  in  casting  a  glance  back  over  his  own  work,  blamed  himself 
for  various  literary  errors.  A  sentence  which  I  have  already  quoted  confessed 
those  occasional  lapses  into  effectism  which,  in  fact,  became  less  and  less  fre- 
quent in  his  later  work;  and  that  is  not  his  only  self-accusation.  '  I  repent 
having  begun  to  write  novels  when  too  young.  ...  I  regret  having 
written  more  than  I  should.  Far  from  being  proud  of  the  number  of  my 
works  I  am  ashamed  when  I  think  of  the  great  writers  who  in  their  long  and 
laborious  lives  have  not  produced  so  much.  It  is  a  fault  of  the  times  which 
I  have  not  been  able  to  escape.'  Imagine  Balzac  making  such  an  admission, 
which  is  truer  of  Balzac  than  of  Valdes!  The  latter,  like  Flaubert,  is  his 
own  keenest  critic,  and  so  we  may  be  allowed,  in  reviewing  his  work,  to  lay 
more  stress  upon  its  beauties,  which  he  leaves  unmentioned. 

It  is  one  of  the  signs  of  his  greatness  that  the  astonishing  variety  in  his 
work  makes  generalization  concerning  it  dangerous.  Do  we  pronounce  him 
an  optimist?  some  one  will  remind  us  of  one  or  two  novels  of  most  depress- 
ing tone.  A  realist?  read  La  J  Idea  perdida.  A  moralist?  how  is  El 
Idilio  de  un  Enfermo  to  be  classified  upon  that  basis?  Such  multiformity 
of  creation  simply  means  that  Valdes  is  a  many-sided  man,  and  that  he  takes 


106  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

pleasure  in  giving  expression  now  to  one  mood,  now  to  another.  He  is  not 
a  writer  to  be  labeled  in  a  few  sentences,  but  some  general  lines  may  be 
drawn  with  all  reserve  and  caution. 

The  novel  of  Valdes  is  primarily  a  novel  of  character,  secondarily  of 
manners;  it  deals  only  occasionally  with  class  problems,  and  least  of  all  with 
events.  The  author  is  interested  above  all  in  his  men  and  women,  who  are 
in  general  average  in  virtue  and  talents,  —  the  kind  of  people  we  meet  every 
day.  The  inner  development  of  these  single  characters  is  his  study,  not 
such  broad  questions  as  political  clashes  of  the  past  or  present,  racial  antag- 
onism, or  the  strife  between  socialism  and  clericalism.  He  has  neither  the 
wish  nor  the  power  to  handle  large  masses  after  Zola's  fashion.  Be  it 
noted  in  passing  that  these  mass-problems,  which  occupy  very  much  some 
novelists  of  the  present,  usually  result  from  passing  or  lo:al  conditions,  which 
interest  the  present  generation  deeply,  but  will  become  obsolete  within  a 
measurable  time.  Valdes,  by  his  very  modesty  of  aim,  attains  a  high  degree 
of  universality.  He  depicts  the  everlasting  struggles  going  on  in  the  human 
heart  between  the  good  angel  and  the  demon;  the  weak  selfishness  of  one, 
the  self-denial  of  another,  the  unreasoning  passion  of  a  third.  His  power 
to  conceive  character  and  put  it  in  action  with  unerring  consistency  as  well  as 
growth  is  his  first  and  greatest  strength.  His  personages  impress  the  reader 
as  inevitable,  like  the  best  of  Balzac's;  only  very  seldom  does  one  find  a  per- 
son, like  Paca  of  Los  Majos  de  Cadiz,  who  smacks  of  arbitrary  traits  inse- 
curely dovetailed  together.  The  great  majority  seem  to  have  stepped  into 
the  book  out  of  life;  and  the  best  of  them,  such  as  Marta  and  her  father  of 
Marta  y  Maria;  Maximina;  Cecilia,  Ventura,  and  Gonzalo  of  El  Cuarto 
Poder;  Cristina  and  Captain  Ribot,  will  bear  comparison  with  any  char- 
acters in  fiction  for  reality  and  interest.  The  abnormal  development  of  a 
master-passion,  Balzac's  favorite  theme,  is  not  often  touched  by  Valdes. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  is  strong  where  Balzac  was  occasionally  weak,  in  com- 
bining truth  with  poetry  in  the  lives  of  ordinary  folk. 

In  directing  the  movements  of  his  actors  Valdes  is  guided  by  a  horror 
of  the  morally  impossible.  Aiming  only  at  perfect  sincerity,  he  is  not  gov- 
erned by  sensationalism  any  more  than  by  a  superficial  idea  of  the  inevitable. 
He  will  not  falsify  reality  to  satisfy  '  poetic  justice,'  nor  is  he  led  astray  by 
the  theory,  more  seductive  nowadays,  which  assigns  success  always  to  the 
well-equipped.     And  so  the  villain  in  Maximina  gets  off  scot-free ;  and  An- 


S.  GRISWOLD  MORLEY  107 

dres  of  El  Idilio  de  tin  Enfermo  accomplishes  the  ruin  of  a  girl  physically 
and  mentally  his  superior,  as  the  result  of  a  peculiar  sequence  of  events. 
Few  acts  or  states  bring  inevitable  consequences  in  this  world;  incompetence 
and  crime  are  not  always  punished,  nor  ability  and  virtue  rewarded.  Con- 
versely, a  given  act  may  be  the  result  of  an  entanglement  of  motives  very 
hard  to  unravel.  '  They  are  very  few  who  can  explain  the  secret  origins, 
the  fundamental  roots  of  human  actions:  some  because  they  pay  no  attention 
to  psychology,  which  they  deem  useless;  others  endowed  with  keen  and 
subtle  minds,  because  they  use  them  solely  to  search  for  a  selfish  motive; 
hardly  anyone  lifts  the  lid  of  that  magic  chest  of  feelings,  and  longings,  and 
hopes,  and  contradictions,  which  we  call  the  human  heart.'  In  the  narrow 
path  of  the  intimate  psychology  of  human  actions  Valdes  follows  his  own 
delicate  instinct  with  almost  invariable  success. 

Movement  in  his  stories  is  generally  very  leisurely,  as  I  have  indicated. 
This  fault  he  overcame  to  some  extent  in  his  later  work.  His  novels  charm, 
but  do  not  compel ;  not  more  than  two  or  three  out  of  all  could  ever  induce 
an  excitable  reader  to  pass  over  his  usual  bed-time  by  half  an  hour.  Not 
that  a  greater  number  of  theatrical  incidents  would  be  desirable;  Valdes 
deserves  the  highest  praise  for  the  firm  stand  he  has  taken  in  favor  of  the 
purely  sincere  and  natural,  and  when  he  does  aim  at  an  unexpected  effect  he 
often  blunders.  But,  to  quote  his  own  words,  '  the  novelist  is  under  an 
imperative  obligation  never  to  bore  his  reader,  to  keep  his  interest  alert,  his 
mind  fettered  by  invisible  bonds,  which  will  carry  him  through  the  imaginary 
world  without  his  feeling  the  fatigues  of  the  journey.'  It  is  not  necessary 
to  draw  upon  police  records  in  order  to  hold  a  reader's  interest,  witness 
1  Eugenie  Grandet.'  Inasmuch  as  he  is  reading  fiction,  not  observing  life, 
however,  the  reader  has  a  right  to  expect  progress  toward  some  goal;  and 
that  is  what  Valdes  has  frequently  failed  to  provide.  The  most  obvious  ex- 
ceptions are  El  Idilio  de  tin  Enfermo,  El  Maestrante,  and  La  Alegria  del 
Capitdn  R'ibot. 

His  style,  however,  is  so  attractive  that  it  counterbalances  in  large  meas- 
ure any  deficiencies  of  structure.  It  possesses  wonderful  power  and  flexibil- 
ity, passing  easily  and  naturally  from  satirical  description  to  earnest  and 
sympathetic  eloquence.  It  is  always  personal,  bearing  a  constant  under- 
current of  the  author's  quiet  humor.  In  this  respect  it  is  like  the  style  of 
Anatole  France,  without  the  taint;  and  the  comparison  between  the  two 


io8  THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

writers  might  be  carried  further.  Each  conducts  his  stories  at  the  same 
sauntering  gait,  and  the  archaeological  lore  which  France  turns  to  such  liter- 
ary account  is  represented  in  the  Spaniard  by  a  really  profound  acquaintance 
with  modern  science.  Valdes'  language  is  never  ordinary,  and  one  rightly 
fears  to  skip  a  page  of  description,  lest  one  miss  some  well-turned  phrase  or 
humorously  acute  observation.  His  pages  glow  with  an  inner  light  which 
gives  a  poetic  radiance  to  the  commonest  occurrences  of  life.  This  light  is 
nothing  else  than  deep  sympathy  with  nature  in  all  her  manifestations,  in  the 
acts  of  men  as  well  as  in  the  forests  and  rivers;  a  sensuous  delight  in  existence 
for  its  own  sake. 

As  an  example  let  me  quote  a  bit  from  a  short  story  called  Solo! 
(Alone!). 

Fresnedo,  a  hard-working  merchant  of  Madrid,  is  enjoying  a  vacation 
in  the  country  with  his  little  son. 

He  was  sound  asleep,  taking  his  usual  siesta.  A  well-known  voice 
awoke  him. 

'  Papa,  papa  ! ' 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  his  son  a  yard  away,  with  his  pinafore  of 
gray  drilling,  his  little  white  shoes,  and  his  tangled  black  hair  falling  in 
ringlets  over  his  forehead. 

'  Papa     .     .     Tata  said  you  didn't  want     .     .     you  didn't  want     . 
you  didn't  want     .     .     to  buy  me  a  cart     .     .     and  she  said     .     .     the 
ram  wasn't  mine     .      .     that  it  was  Carmita's  (his  sister),  and  she  doesn't 
let  me  catch  it  by  the  horns  and  she  pricked  my  hand.' 

The  child,  in  pronouncing  this  speech  in  his  pretty  broken  fashion,  stop- 
ping at  each  phrase,  showed  in  his  deep  black  eyes  lively  indignation  and 
great  thirst  for  justice.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  he  was  going  to  burst 
into  tears;  but  his  sturdy  temperament  came  to  the  fore,  and  after  a  pause 
he  closed  his  peroration  with  a  teamster's  ejaculation.  His  father  had  been 
listening  to  him  rapt  in  delight,  urging  him  by  gestures  to  continue,  as  if 
heavenly  music  were  enchanting  his  ears.  At  hearing  the  exclamation  he 
broke  out  in  loud  and  merry  laughter.  The  child  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment, unable  to  understand  how  what  made  him  so  angry  could  amuse  his 
papa.  The  latter  could  have  listened  to  him  for  hours  and  hours  without 
moving  an  eyelash.  And  that  notwithstanding  the  fact  that,  as  his  mother- 
in-law  used  to  tell  her  visitors,  when  she  wished  to  give  her  son-in-law  the 


S.  GRISVVOLD  MORLEY  109 

coup  de  grace,  and  ruin  him  completely  in  the  public  eye,  he  had  gone  to  sleep 
while  Gayarre  was  singing  La  Favorita/ff 

'So,  my  cherub?  Doesn't  Tata  let  you  take  the  ram  by  the  horns? 
Wait  till  I  get  up,  and  you'll  see  if  I  settle  Tata ! ' 

Fresnedo  drew  his  son  to  him  and  planted  two  tremendous  kisses  on 
his  cheeks,  at  the  same  time  caressing  his  little  head  with  his  hands. 

Fragmentary  as  this  passage  is  when  removed  from  its  context,  I  think 
that  a  careful  reader  cannot  help  feeling  its  charm  at  once.  How  simple 
a  matter,  and  yet  how  exactly  each  touch  is  given  which  sets  before  one  the 
situation,  the  attitudes,  the  shades  of  thought  of  each  actor!  Will  not 
every  father  see  himself  in  Fresnedo?  Yet  the  fascination  does  not  lie  in 
the  photographic  accuracy  of  the  scene  so  much  as  in  an  indescribable  spirit 
added  to  it,  a  spirit  of  sympathetic  wholesomeness  which  pervades  most  of 
Valdes'  work.  To  the  frankness  which  we  expect  in  a  Latin  writer  he  adds 
great  delicacy  of  feeling,  so  that  although  he  paints  sordid  and  even  brutal 
instincts  at  times,  he  dwells  upon  them  only  enough  to  produce  the  effect  of 
reality  which  he  desires. 

Because  Valdes  is  a  subjective  writer,  we  can  pick  out  of  his  novels 
some  indications  of  his  personal  beliefs,  however  carefully  he  may  refrain 
from  preaching,  or  from  identifying  himself  with  any  of  his  creations.  It 
is  apparent,  for  example,  that  he  has  a  poor  opinion  of  the  existing  represen- 
tatives of  the  Spanish  nobility.  Some  of  the  Aguas  fuertes  show  him  in  line 
with  so  many  other  merely  literary  men  as  an  opponent  of  capital  punish- 
ment. Clearly,  too,  he  is  not  a  believer  in  any  church  creed,  and  despises 
bigotry  —  or  would,  if  he  were  not  too  wise  to  despise  anything,  —  as  much 
as  he  does  pedantic  science.  Many  of  the  novels,  especially  the  later  ones, 
point  a  moral,  which  does  not  always  lie  near  the  surface.  That  moral,  as 
far  as  it  can  be  generalized  at  all,  is  the  old-fashioned  one,  '  Right  living  is 
necessary  to  true  happiness.'  Thus  he  states  himself  that  La  Alegria  del 
Capitdn  Ribot  is  '  a  protest  from  the  depths  against  the  eternal  adultery  of 
the  French  novel.'  Through  almost  every  page  there  runs,  implied  rather 
than  expressed,  a  vein  of  optimism,  which  he  somewhere  attributes  to  indul- 
gence while  a  child  in  certain  very  hard  and  sweet  lozenges,  peculiar  to  the 
town  of  Gijon.  It  is  not  a  devotee's  blind  faith  that  things  will  come  out 
right  in  the  end;  it  is  something  nobler  and  deeper,  a  belief  in  the  reality  of 


no      THE  NOVELS  OF  A.  PALACIO  VALDES 

man's  higher  aspirations. 

Such  as  this  work  is,  it  will  compare  well  with  that  of  any  novelist  alive 
today.  We  may  be  permitted  to  hope,  too,  that  La  Aldea  perdida  will  not 
prove  Valdes'  '  last  song ' ;  for  he  is  only  fifty-one,  and  the  novelist  can  with 
difficulty  remain  silent  for  whom  every  bit  of  surrounding  life  is  worthy 
matter  for  a  story.  In  any  one  of  his  novels  the  student  of  character  will 
find  a  hundred  points  of  interest;  and  in  a  few,  Marta  y  Maria,  El  Maes- 
trante,  La  Alegria  del  Capitdn  Ribot,  there  is  that  union  of  perfected 
form  and  absorbing  interest  of  theme  which  constitutes  enduring  superiority. 
Yet  those  who  love  Spanish  literature  do  not  seek  in  it  chiseled  form  or  a 
golden  flow  of  words,  such  as  the  Italianates  admire;  they  look  for  spon- 
taneity, sincerity,  and  flashes  of  insight.  After  all  Valdes  is  a  Spaniard  in 
his  artistic  expression,  in  spite  of  his  emancipation  from  peninsularity  of 
view. 

{A  complete  story  by  Valdes  will  be  published  in  the  Winter  Number  of  Poet  Lore) 


AN  ITALIAN  LANDSCAPE 

By  Gabriele  D'Annunzio 

Translated  from  the  Italian  by  Clarence  Stratton 

E,  mute,  still  ride  our  weary  courses 
Thro'  this  old  fathering  earth  where  Peace  expands 
Her  flowers  among  the  works  of  human  hands,  — 
We  hear  the  slow,  sonorous  pace  of  the  horses. 
Then  in  the  sanctity  of  the  night  just  born, 
There  rises  suddenly  from  the  low  lying  brink 
Of  the  sea,  a  sweet  long  chant.     The  sun  may  sink, 
But  this  sunset  to  us  appears  a  morn. 
I  remember.     Thro'  the  infinitude 
Above  the  silence  of  all  things  ascended 
Unapprehended  still,  a  sense  divine 
Of  peace,  forgetfulness.     A  multitude 
Of  hills  stood  round,  —  afar  in  slope  descended 
To  meet  the  plain,  Mont  Carno,  god  supine. 


THE   BOOK 


Written  in  a  copy  of  'The  Flame  of  Life'  by  Gabriele  D' Annunzio 

By  Florence  Brooks 


m     tm     ^HOU  readst  the  book, 

'  *     Word  upon  word  unfurls, 


I 


Flower  upon  flower, 

Rhythm  and  riches,  unborn  power  of  rhyme, 
The  drip  of  color  caught  in  a  clear  cup, 
The  wine  of  souls  in  tears,  prismatic,  white, 
Gloweth,  groweth. 

One  sweet  phrase 
Molten  of  divers  jewels 
Shineth  piercing,  and  the  flash 
From  the  dark  translucence 
Of  thine  eyes,  unmined  riches, 
The  shadow  of  thy  soul 
Darkens  and  lightens. 

And  thus  the  book 
Thy  thought  did  linger  over 
Bending  as  a  lover, 
Hath  drunk  thy  beauty, 
Thrills  with  thy  nobility, 
Throbs  with  thy  passion, 
Gives  thee  to  me ! 

0  the  mystic  birth 
Shows  in  the  pangs 
Powerfully,  thy  superb  being. 
As  a  strong  bush 

Of  dark  roses  in  shadow 

1  see  thy  abundance  before  me 
Splendid,  compelling. 

(in) 


THE  SYMBOLISM  OF  THE 
FLAME  OF  LIFE 

By  Florence  Brooks 

IT  would  be  a  mean  world  if  ardor  had  not  its  chance,  a  wanton  world 
if  passion  had  not  its  use.  Health  is  as  beholden  to  the  ecstasies 
as  to  the  lethargies  in  nature's  alternation.  No  specific  creation 
would  renew  art  or  life  without  the  abandonment  to  law,  not  rule. 
In  virtue  of  creative  power  a  man  steps  away  from  the  crowd  of  the 
passive.     They  follow  him. 

In  the  mind  of  D'Annunzio's  poet,  Stelio  Effrena,  surging  with  Latin 
ardors,  fs  an  anomaly.  This  poet,  who  is  D'Annunzio  himself,  gathers  to 
him  the  Gothic  mystery.  His  effort  to  bare  mystery,  to  grasp  it,  makes  the 
book  unique.  The  burning  flame  flares  into  the  mist  of  spirit  which  is  the 
impalpable  of  art.      He  does  not  lose  himself,  he  gains  others. 

Gabriel  D'Annunzio  is  a  symbolist.  His  mastery  of  his  own  forms  of 
symbolism  is  prefigured  in  other  work,  but  is  more  perfect  in  '  The  Flame  of 
Life.'  In  the  development  of  time  the  greatest  works  reach  symbolism. 
Filled  with  images,  instilling  power  with  ever  fresher  and  more  wonderful 
symbols,  this  book  elucidates  the  psychology  of  creation.  It  is  a  message  of 
a  poet  to  poets,  of  a  creator  to  creators.  It  is  the  solitary  utterance  of  the 
consciousness  of  creative  processes. 

In  this  study  of  creative  force  shown  in  the  spiritual  realm  the  char- 
acters of  the  poet-lover  and  the  actress  are  symbols.  It  is  no  mere  personal 
exposition.  The  author  displays  the  man  and  the  woman,  translated  to  spir- 
ituality through  sensuality,  in  their  eternal  and  supreme  use,  fused  for  the 
work  that  is  to  come.     The  flesh  falls  away  and  leaves  the  live  soul. 

For  his  little  hour,  Stelio  Effrena  becomes  one  of  the  creators.  He 
proceeds  with  joy,  for  he  is  a  man.  Mystery,  the  unfolding  of  wonder,  is 
symbolized  in  La  Boscarine,  whom  he  names  Perdita.  The  man  is  strong 
and  bright,  but  she  is  poignant  with  tragic  fate.  She  is  the  vision,  he  the 
seer;  she  substance,  he  the  maker.     She  is  the  fuel,  he  the  flame. 

To  enhance  the  perpetual  energy  of  man  D'Annunzio  uses  the  melan- 
choly limitation  of  woman.  This  deep-souled,  dumb  woman  '  gave  him  the 
idea  of  a  deep  shut-up  house,  where  violent  hands  suddenly  opened  all  the 
doors  and  windows,  causing  them  to  turn  on  their  corroded  hinges.'     And 

(112) 


FLORENCE  BROOKS  113 

*  to  her  it  was  given  to  prolong  such  a  state  of  intensity  by  a  supreme  effort 
he  moved  in  it  as  easily  as  if  it  were  his  natural  mode  of  being, 
ceaselessly  enjoying  the  miraculous  world  of  his  own  that  he  renewed  by  an 
act  of  continual  creation.' 

And  when  the  poet  had  drawn  on  this  woman,  his  Perdita,  to  live  in  '  a 
higher  zone  of  life '  to  suffer  '  the  transfigurations  that  it  should  please  the 
Life  Giver  to  work  in  her  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  own  constant  desire  of 
poetry  and  beauty '  ...  he  brought,  in  her  as  he  had  in  himself,  '  the 
intimate  marriage  of  art  with  life,  and  he  thus  found  in  his  own  substance  a 
spring  of  perennial  harmonies.' 

He  becomes  multanime,  says  (in  an  earlier  work)  D'Annunzio,  to 
whom  the  idea  is  not  new.  The  souls  thus  created  are  germinated  from  '  the 
ideas  caused  to  blossom  on  the  permanent  basis  of  his  being.  .  .  .'  And 
either  gradually  or  all  at  once  they  become  '  new  souls.  .  .  .'  The 
creator's  '  center  of  gravity  is  displaced,  his  personality  becomes  another 
personality.     .     .      .     He  becomes  multanime.' 

The  creator  does  not  lose  himself,  he  gains  others. 

Intellectually  he  recognizes  '  in  the  woman's  mystery  the  surviving 
power  of  the  primitive  myth  .  .  .  the  renewed  initiation  of  the  deity 
that  has  fused  all  energies  in  one  single  ferment. 

From  its  pages  '  The  Flame  of  Life '  pours  the  whole  earthly  material 
which  Stelio  Effreno  found  and  garnered  for  joyous  creation. 

1  To  create  with  joy '  is  the  text  of  his  splendid  speech  at  the  poet's 
festival,  flushed  with  Venetian  color.  An  '  unknown  power  converged  in 
him,  abolishing  the  limits  of  his  own  person  and  conferring  a  fulness  of  his 
solitary  voice.'  The  significances  of  sense  penetrate  '  the  greater  depths 
until  they  come  upon  the  great  mystery  and  shudder.'  Their  '  vision  pro- 
longs itself  upon  the  veil  upon  which  life  has  painted  the  voluptuous  images 
that  give  pleasure.' 

The  speaker  describes  the  beautiful  city  of  art,  his  Venice,  as  a  woman 
1  palpitating  under  a  thousand  girdles  of  green  and  the  weight  of  her  great 
jewels,'  and  her  lover  was  the  god  of  the  young  autumn.  For,  he  says,  '  the 
soul  of  Venice,  the  soul  fashioned  for  the  city  beautiful  by  its  great  artists, 
is  autumnal.' 

The  images  of  the  feted  poet,  which  he  pours  over  the  multitude  of 
Venetian  women  and  nobles,  gathered  to  do  him  honor,  glorifies  for  them 

8 


ii4         THE  SYMBOLISM  OF  THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE 

his  psychology  of  creative  power.  He  personifies  it  thus :  '  Venice  teaches 
us  the  possibility  of  transforming  pain  into  .  .  stimulating  energies;  she 
teaches  that  joy  is  the  most  certain  means  of  knowledge  offered  us  by 
Nature,  and  that  he  who  has  suffered  much  is  less  wise  than  he  who  has  en- 
joyed.' In  his  final  '  visions,'  his  intensified  sight  had  '  cleared  away  the 
mists  of  inert  sadness  from  more  than  one  spirit,  and  in  more  than  one  had 
killed  cowardice  and  vain  tears,  and  in  more  than  one  had  instilled  forever 
a  scorn  of  complaining  sorrows  and  weak  compassions.' 

And  he  brings  at  the  end  with  velocity  a  flood  of  images,  his  teaching. 
'And  they  who  had  withdrawn  into  a  hermit's  cell  to  adore  a  sad  phantom 
that  only  lived  in  the  blurred  mirror  of  their  own  eyes;  and  they  who  had 
made  themselves  kings  of  a  windowless  palace,  from  the  immemorial  await- 
ing a  visitation  there;  and  they  who  had  hoped  to  dig  up  the  image  of  beauty 
from  under  some  ruin  and  had  only  found  a  worn  Sphinx  that  only  tormented 
them  with  its  endless  enigmas;  and  they  who  sat  down  evening  after  evening, 
pale,  to  await  the  arrival  of  a  mysterious  stranger  bringing  endless  gifts 
under  his  mantle  ...  all  those  who  are  sterilized  by  a  resigned  mourn- 
ing or  devoured  by  a  desperate  pride  ....  he  would  bid  them  all 
come  and  recognize  their  disease  under  the  splendour  of  that  ancient  yet 
ever  resurgent  soul,     ...     to  create  with  joy ! ' 

The  poet  discovers,  possesses,  and  thereof  shapes  life  of  what  was  but 
matter.  His  material  may  be  human,  it  may  be  found  under  the  earth,  in 
mines,  wells,  oceans,  gardens,  even  kitchens;  it  may  be  the  needs  and  moods 
of  men  which  the  master  will  form  into  armies  or  unions  or  forces,  it  may  be 
ideas,  emotions,  yearnings.  The  poet  surveys  the  whole  earth,  he  takes  what 
he  will.  He  finds  his  bread  and  wine  at  every  board.  To  him  women  yield 
refreshment  and  he  is  like  the  wandering  priest  to  those  who  revere  him,  who 
feed  him,  who  deem  him  sacred. 

The  call  of  the  great  law  of  creation  leads  him.  He  rises  over  ob- 
stacles which  he  does  not  even  see  in  his  creative  impulses.  The  myth, 
that  collection  of  related  images,  that  image  which  is  a  symbol,  the  spiritual- 
ity of  sensuality,  the  visibility  of  beauty,  the  intricate  and  forever  inter- 
weaving flesh  and  spirit,  these  are  his  wisdom. 

The  cult  of  symbolism  is  exotic  to  American  life.  We  have  no  time 
for  the  caress  of  the  dream.  We  are  heaping  together  treasures  from  our 
earth,  it  is  the  time  of  accumulation,  not  of  construction  of  material.     We 


LINES  SENT  WITH  A  COPY  OF  THE  RUBAIYAT      115 

are  bringing  wood  for  the  fire  whose  flame  has  not  yet  been  struck.     The 
flame  is  invisible,  almost  unimaginable  as  yet. 

Emerson  and  Poe  were  symbolists,  and  in  phases  Henry  James  is  a 
symbolist.  The  symbolism  of  Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Meredith,  D'Annunzio, 
Mallarme,  and  of  many  less  blazoned  living  men  is  a  sign  of  their  develop- 
ment in  spite  of  a  materialistic  age,  of  their  translation  into  the  realm  where 
the  process  of  creation  is  carried  on. 


LINES  SENT  WITH  A  COPY  OF 

THE  RUBAIYAT 

By  George  Germond 


T 


HE  Persian,  wandering  through  his  garden  place, 
Insatiable,  questing,  searching  space, 

Dreamt  of  the  road  whereby  the  earthly  grove 
Should  broaden  to  those  fields  immortals  pace.  — 

Old  Omar,  piercing  immortality, 
Set  his  free  spirit  groping  for  the  key 

Whereby  the  Wherefore,  Where,  and  the  Beyond 
Should  open  to  your  sight,  Humanity,  — 

And  many  a  fairy  vista  laid  he  bare, 

Where  his  delights  our  vision  still  may  share,  — 

His  sorrows  and  his  laughter  cling  to  us, 
While  o'er  the  way  we  slowly  onward  fare. 

But  thou  and  I,  where  through  life's  maze  we  move, 
The  Key  have  found  life's  mystery  to  prove 

Of  Here,  and  Now,  Hereafter,  and  Ourselves,  — 
Mysterious,  simple,  —  and  men  call  it  Love. 


RECENT    GERMAN   CRITICISM 

Hermann   Sudermann 

By  Warren  Washburn  Florer 

'HEN  one  considers  the  development  of  the  German  novel 
since  Goethe's  '  Wilhelm  Meister,'  and  especially  the 
development  since  1848,  or  the  more  recent  one  since  the 
founding  of  the  German  Empire,  it  seems  almost  incredit- 
able  that  contemporary  German  literature,  so  rich  in  mod- 
ern productive  forces,  is  practically  unknown  in  this 
country  where  German  influence  is  so  strong.  And  where  known,  a  per- 
verted conception  of  it  usually  exists.  The  recent  activity  in  German  litera- 
ture has  renewed  the  interest  in  the  writings  of  Hermann  Sudermann,  the 
great  dramatist  and  novelist.  Sudermann  is  known  in  this  country  more  as 
a  dramatist  than  as  a  novelist,  and  mostly  through  an  English  interpretation 
of  '  Heimat.'  No  German  writer  who  has  attained  a  literary  reputation 
is,  therefore,  more  misunderstood  than  Sudermann.  This  is  due  mainly 
to  the  fact  that  we  are  wont  to  accept  dogmatic  statements  of  the  critics  as 
infallible  decisions. 

It  is  indisputably  true  that  the  majority  of  critics  read  into  a  work 
their  own  ideas  rather  than  read  out  of  it  the  fundamental  ideas  underlying 
the  author's  words.  The  critics  may,  however,  in  order  to  substantiate  their 
point  of  view,  cite  only  passages,  or  parts  of  passages,  or  even  words,  which 
ostensibly  lend  support  to  their  contention.  Or  they  may  judge  a  writer 
by  a  single  book  which  is  but  a  part  of  a  larger  plan,  and,  at  the  best,  can 
give  one  but  a  limited  insight  into  the  man's  life  work.  This  is  dangerous, 
not  to  say  unscientific,  —  dangerous,  because  the  reader  may  accept  the 
criticism  as  final ;  unscientific,  because  the  deductions  drawn  from  such  insuffi- 
cient premises  are  necessarily  lacking  in  logical  conclusiveness. 

Again,  it  is  very  difficult  for  a  critic,  who  has  been  brought  up  in  cer- 
tain lines  of  thought,  to  free  himself  entirely  from  the  deep-rooted  prejudices 
of  early  associations,  and  especially  so  when  he  ventures  to  express  a  judg- 
ment on  the  literary  productions  of  an  author  so  complex  and  so  subtle  in 

(116) 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  117 

experience  and  character  as  Sudermann.  Some  critics,  there  aie,  who  in- 
tend to  dedicate  their  work  to  'Seiner  Majestat,'  or  freely  translated,  to 
the  '  powers  that  be.'  But  the  most  dangerous  critics  of  all  for  the  Ameri- 
can student  outside  of  the  classroom  are  those  who  write  '  copy.'  Such 
criticisms  are  usually  based  on  the  interpretation  of  the  actors,  and  these  in- 
terpretations are  as  widely  different  as  the  characters  of  the  actors.  The 
'  Magda '  of  D-use  would  not  recognize  the  '  Magda '  of  Mrs.  Patrick 
Campbell. 

From  the  above  it  will  be  seen  that  if  one  follows  the  critics  one  will 
obtain  but  a  confused  conglomeration  of  ideas,  or  will  accept  the  criticism 
that  appeals  to  his  own  subjective  tastes.  One  feels  almost  tempted  to  follow 
Goethe,  put  aside  the  critical  reviews  and  books  and  go  to  the  sources,  that  is, 
to  the  author's  writings.  Even  these,  we  must  bear  in  mind,  are  but  the  in- 
complete and  imperfect  expression  of  the  inner  thoughts  of  the  author.  The 
modernists  are  mostly  serious  men  and  women,  writing  for  serious  men  and 
women,  not  necessarily,  however,  conservative. 

Before  one  can  read  Sudermann  with  appreciation  one  must  have  at- 
tained a  certain  development,  for  each  individual  will  only  learn  that  which 
he  can  learn.  One  is  at  once  limited  by  his  own  Seele-life-experience.  One 
must  free  himself  before  he  can  appreciate  a  man  who  is  already  freed.  That 
is,  one  must  first  attain  a  largeness  of  spirit,  a  comprehensiveness  of  vision 
which  enables  one  to  see  a  man  or  a  man's  work  with  eyes  from  which  the 
scales  of  prejudice  have  fallen,  it  matters  not  whether  these  prejudices  are 
rooted  in  extreme  conservatism  or  extreme  radicalism.  Furthermore,  one 
must  consider  that  the  range  of  an  author  is  as  broad  as  human  nature  itself 
in  its  deepest  significance.  One  must  look  a  little  deeper  into  the  depths  of 
human  nature,  since  that  which  one  is  wont  to  call  '  good  or  bad  in  a  pow- 
erful man,'  or  in  a  powerful  book,  '  is  only  in  the  shallow  surface.  Under 
the  surface  resting  in  dynamic  power  is  the  natural,'  and  the  natural  is 
essentially  true,  and  truth  should  be  the  ultimate  aim  of  man.  Even  thus 
equipped  it  is  necessary  to  know  as  much  as  possible  the  man,  his  experience, 
his  personality  and  purpose  in  writing  in  order  to  understand  the  works  of 
the  man. 

When  Sudermann  gave  '  Frau  Sorge '  to  the  press  he  was  thirty  years 
of  age,  so  inexperience  can  not  be  charged  against  him.  We  have  not, 
unfortunately,  the  real  direct  autobiography  of  the  boy,  the  youth,  and  the 


n8  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

young  man,  although  to  understand  a  man  thoroughly  one  must  know  him 
in  his  earlier  years.  Fortunately,  however,  Sudermann  leads  us  to  the  por- 
tals from  which  we  can,  to  a  certain  extent,  view  his  inner  development, 
namely,  his  novels,  and  especially  in  '  Frau  Sorge,'  into  which,  as  Goethe 
did  in  '  Werthers  Leiden,'  he  poured  his  very  life  blood.  And,  if,  after 
one  has  recovered  from  the  '  surprise  and  astonishment '  of  the  first  reading, 
one  begins  to  read  his  works  with  '  observation  and  investigation,'  he  need 
not  be  classed  among  those  who  seeing  see  and  do  not  perceive. 

Sudermann  has  given  a  key,  as  it  were,  to  himself  and  to  his  '  Frau 
Sorge '  in  the  dedicatory  poem  to  his  parents. 

From  it  one  may  deduct  several  important  facts.  Sudermann  has 
known  Frau  Sorge  throughout  his  entire  life.  Notwithstanding  this  he  has 
never  lost  the  courage  and  strength  to  struggle  with  care  and  adversity. 
He  knows  by  experience  where  the  true  flowers  of  fortune  grow.  By  his 
own  endeavors  he  has  outgrown  the  sorrows  of  the  past  and  now  looks  upon 
life  in  a  healthy  optimistic  spirit.  In  this  poem  is  contained  the  theme  of 
his  entire  work. 

In  order  to  appreciate  Sudermann  it  is  necessary  to  study  his  character, 
lest  we  may  fall  into  the  mistakes  Richard  M.  Meyer  makes  in  his  '  German 
Literature  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.'  Meyer  has  apparently  caught  but 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  Sudermann,  as  he  disappeared  hurriedly  in  the  orange 
groves  of  Bellagio. 

What  a  different  conception  of  Sudermann  may  one  obtain  from  his 

own  words  and  actions : 

'  We  boys  are  young  —  we  have  strength, 
Our  courage  has  not  as  yet  lost  its  savor  — ' 

Or  later  in  1902  in  answer  to  inquiries  which  Crottewitz  sent  through- 
out Germany  in  order  to  obtain  the  opinions  of  various  artists  concerning 
the  future  of  German  literature,  Sudermann  replied :  '  Create  artists !  talk 
not.' 

Again,  Sudermann's  speech  which  was  forced  by  the  movement  culmi- 
nated in  what  is  known  as  the  '  Lex  Heinze '  before  the  '  Goethebund '  at 
Munich,  April,  1900,  is  of  interest.  A  word  concerning  the  '  Goethebund ' 
may  be  in  place  before  proceeding.  The  '  Goethebund '  is  a  sort  of  de- 
fensive and  offensive  alliance  of  the  artists  (in  the  broad  meaning  of  the 
word)  of  Germany  against  the  powerful  movement  inspired  by  the  '  Cen- 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  119 

trum '  and  the  '  ultra  scholastic  conservatives '  to  clip  the  artist's  wings 
and  to  impose  upon  him  limitations  according  to  their  conception  of  what 
good  and  evil  is.  This  movement  culminated,  as  stated,  in  the  '  Lex 
Heinze.'  According  to  this  bill,  works  of  art  were  to  be  submitted  to  a 
jury  consisting  of  extremely  conservative  and  safe  men.  They  were  to 
stamp  the  works  of  art  as  good  or  bad  according  to  their  finding.  No  more 
fitting  acknowledgment  of  Goethe's  broad  conception  of  art  could  be  ren- 
dered than  by  calling  the  alliance  of  modern  artists  the  '  Goethebund,'  and 
by  the  selection  of  Goethe  as  its  '  Schutzpatron.' 

'Our  Schutzpatron,  in  whose  name  we  are  here  gathered,  once  said: 
"  In  every  artist  there  must  be  concealed  a  germ  of  audacity,  without  which 
no  talent  is  conceivable."  So  spake  Goethe.  Rob  the  artist  of  this  privilege 
to  be  audacious  and  to  endeavor  to  seek  his  own  path  through  the  under- 
brush, meaning  in  plain  words,  rather  to  trot  along  decorously  and  comfort- 
ably upon  the  macadamized  roads  behind  the  retinue  of  the  prince,  and 
you  will  soon  see  how  soon  German  art  will  be  at  an  end.  But  that  shall 
never  happen.  And  in  order  that  it  shall  never  happen  stands  our  Goethe- 
bund on  guard,  and  will  take  good  heed  that  no  force  shall  be  applied  to 
German  making  and  creating,  that  no  force  shall  be  applied  to  German 
thinking  and  investigation,  it  matters  not  whether  it  may  come.' 

Such  is  the  caliber  of  Sudermann  the  man. 

The  next  question  is  —  what  are  his  aims?  The  aims  of  a  writer 
often  give  rise  to  many  unphilosophical  discussions.  Sudermann,  however, 
in  '  Heimat,'  defined  his  aim  in  a  short  concise  sentence,  '  The  purpose  of 
art  is  to  elevate  the  moral  sense  of  the  people.  Knowing  his  aim,  what  is 
his  method?  In  order  to  elevate  the  moral  sense  of  the  people,  one  must 
awaken  the  moral  sense.  What  is  his  process?  Exposure.  What  is  to 
be  exposed?  The  conditions  which  tend  to  dull  the  moral  sense.  What 
are  these  conditions?  The  family,  the  school,  the  church,  the  society,  the 
government,  in  so  far  as  they  retard  a  healthful  development  of  individuality. 

One  may  thus  have  an  idea  what  will  be  treated  in  his  writings  and 
especially  in  his  novels.  And  knowing  the  nature  of  the  poet,  one  may  see 
that  he  will  not  handle  things  with  gloves.  By  experience  Sudermann  first 
learned  what  was  right  and  then  went  ahead.  He  blazed  his  own  path 
through  the  underbrush  of  society,  and  at  the  age  of  thirty  he  had  so  freed 
himself  that,  like  his  creation  Paul  Meyhofer,  he  could  stand  up  with  an 


120  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

erect  head  and  tell  the  truth  before  the  tribunals  of  the  world,  regardless  of 
consequence.  And  as  one  knows,  to  quote  literally  from  Luther :  '  The 
entire  world  hates  the  truth,  if  it  hits,'  or  '  truth  is  the  most  unbearable 
thing  on  the  earth.'  Sudermann  is  one  of  the  few  who  have  recognized  the 
heart  and  contemplation  of  man,  because  he  has  looked  a  little  deeper  into 
the  '  Seele '  of  a  human  being  and  has  been  courageous  enough  to  reveal 
his  feeling,  his  contemplation.  One  may  thus  see  that  his  writings  are  a 
veritable  mine  for  the  honest  reader. 

The  object  of  this  short  article  is  not  to  treat  the  development,  or  to 
give  an  aesthetic  discussion  of  the  author's  books.  The  reader  may  find 
these  in  Kawerau's  '  Hermann  Sudermann,'  in  the  histories  of  Modern 
German  Literature,  in  various  articles  and  criticisms.  A  simple  statement 
will  be  made  in  regard  to  Sudermann's  literary  position  in  the  light  of  the 
most  recent  contemporary  literature.  Sudermann  has  been  severely  criti- 
cised by  men  who,  to  a  large  extent,  '  have  pastured  their  youth  on  the 
literature  of  a  hundred  years  ago '  as  being  a  '  Tendenz '  writer.  But 
that  has  been  the  lot  of  nearly  all  men  who  have  dared  to  treat  the  social 
conditions  of  the  age  in  which  they  have  lived.  '  People  have  a  habit  of 
trying  to  drive  artists  out  of  the  world;  this  is,  perhaps,  not  due  to  the 
evilness  of  mankind,  but  is  rather  the  divine  will  of  the  Creator,  for  if  one 
does  not  strike  the  tuning  fork  it  will  not  resound.' 

Before  noticing  Gustav  Frenssen's  '  Jorn  Uhl,'  an  observation  on  the 
influence  of  Sudermann's  writings  in  another  direction  deserves  to  be  made. 
In  his  dramas,  '  Die  Ehre,'    '  Heimat,'  and  '  Es  Lebe  das  Leben,'  and  in  the 
powerful  short  play,  '  Fritzchen,'  which  is  a  model  of  its  kind,  Sudermann 
has  attacked  the  subtle  parasitic  forces  which  are  undermining  the  govern- 
ing society  of  Germany.     These  works  have  helped  to  pave  the  way  for 
those  novels  which  are  today  revealing  the  conditions  which  exist  in  the 
army  life.     The  strongest  book  is  Baron  Schlicht's   (Wolf  Graf  von  Bau- 
dissin)   '  Men  of  the  First  Class.'     This  demonstrates,  even  if  Sudermann 
be  a  '  Tendenz '  writer,  that  he  has  caught  the  tendencies  of  the  times,  per- 
haps, however,  not  in  every  respect.     He  has  seen  to  a  great  extent,  '  das 
Gewirre  der  Leidenschaften,  Familien  und  Reiche  sich  zwecklos  bewegen- 
die  unaufloslichen  Ratsel  der  Missverstandnisse,  denen  oft  ein  einsilbiges 
Wort  zur  Entwicklung  fehlt,  unsaglich  verderbliche  Verwirrungen  ver.ur- 
sachen.'     And  perhaps  he  has  fulfilled,  more  than  one  at  the  present  can 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN  121 

divine,  the  words  of  the  poet  of  Hemme :  '  Ich  glaube,  es  liegt  daran  .  .  . 
daran,  dass  ich  nicht  mit  beiden  Beinen  im  Trubel  der  Menschheit  stehe. 
Ich  muss  mich  mit  meinen  beiden  festen  Beinen  breitspurig  hinstellen  und 
muss  die  Augen  often  haben.  So  wie  es  wirklich  ist,  das  Leben,  rund  um 
mich  her,  das  muss  ich  sehen.  Man  muss  den  Dingen,  so  wie  sie  sind,  auf 
den  Grund  gehen.  Das  Leben  muss  man  ansehen  und  dann  seine  Quellen 
suchen.  Das  Leben  sprudelt  rings  umher;  aber  wer  sieht  die  Quellen,  die 
Wassergange  unter  der  Erde?  Sie  stehen  und  staunen :  Bunt  ist  das 
Leben,  ein  Wirbel!  Nein.  Es  hat  Quelle  und  Lauf.  Es  ist  ein  Strom. 
Woher  kommt  er?  Wohin  geht  er?  Wer  das  weiss,  der  kann  mehr  als 
andere  Leute ! ' 

This  fact  explains  to  a  great  extent  the  similarity  of  '  Frau  Sorge '  and 
1  Jorn  UhL'  Both  poets  seem  to  have  observed  the  current  of  the  life  of  the 
nation.  Whence  it  comes,  and  whither  it  is  going.  Whether  Frenssen 
was  under  the  influence  of  '  Frau  Sorge,'  or  not,  the  fact  remains  that  Suder- 
mann  first  made  '  Sorge '  as  the  basis  of  a  '  Roman,'  and  that  his  '  Frau 
Sorge '  and  other  writings,  especially  '  Katzensteg,'  '  Es  War,'  and  the 
above-mentioned  dramas,  helped  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  unprecedented 
reception  of  Frenssen's  writings.  The  fact  that  Frenssen  does  not  mention 
Sudermann  has  given  rise  to  much  speculation,  but  it  does  not  prove  any- 
thing. In  reality  it  is  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.  That  Sudermann,  as 
a  young  man  almost  a  generation  ago,  in  this  age  when  the  development 
has  been  so  rapid  and  so  powerful,  saw  the  hidden  springs  and  the  secreted 
burns  which  have  fed  the  current  of  the  new  century,  and  that  he  has  sung, 
in  his  particular  way,  melodies  which  have  not  been  sung  before,  is  sufficient 
to  establish  for  him  a  permanent  place  in  the  history  of  German  literature. 

Again,  both  poets  agree  that  each  man  must  have  an  independent  'Welt- 
anschauung;' that  the  development  of  a  'Weltanschauung'  is  slow;  that 
this  development  begins  in  the  earliest  childhood,  and  that  it  means :  'Auf, 
entdecke  dir  selbst  Land,  Wasser,  Gerate  und  Nahrung ! '  It  is  thus  per- 
fectly natural  that  the  poets  who  know  whence  the  current  of  life  comes, 
and  whither  it  goes,  should  have  to  a  certain  extent  a  similar  '  Weltanschau- 
ung.' It  is  also  perfectly  natural  that  the  poets  who  have  lived  in  different 
localities,  who  have  been  brought  up  in  a  different  atmosphere,  who  have 
enjoyed  a  different  education,  who  have  pursued  a  different  vocation,  and 
who  have  ripened  in  a  different  decade,  should  have  a  different  '  Weltansch- 


122  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

auung.'  Thus,  in  the  '  Weltanschauung '  is  where  they  are  alike,  and  also 
where  they  are  different,  although  they  have  the  same  ultimate  aim  —  the 
development  of  an  independent  personality  within  its  environments.  The 
environments,  or  impelling  forces,  will  be  similar  in  some  respects  and  dif- 
ferent in  others.  Both  come  from  what  one  may  call  modern  Germany  — 
the  North  —  but  Sudermann's  '  Heimat '  is  Lithuania,  and  Frenssen's 
1  Heimat'  is  Schleswig-Holstein.  Frenssen  lives  in  the  old  '  Heimat.'  Sud- 
ermann  has  a  new  '  Heimat  '-Berlin,  but  he  still  keeps  alive  the  old.  Both 
have  the  history,  philosophy,  and  literature  of  the  past,  from  which  they 
profit  in  their  own  way.  Both  live  under  the  influence  of  the  same  general 
'  Zeitgeist.'  However,  what  one  calls  '  Zeitgeist '  in  literature,  is  '  Im  Grund 
der  Herren  eigner  Geist,  in  dem  die  Zeiten  sich  bespiegeln.'  Therefore, 
one  cannot  compare  the  two  poets  with  the  same  glass,  nor  gauge  them  with 
the  same  measure. 

As  stated  before,  both  poets  have  '  Sorge  '  as  the  fundamental  basis  of 
their  work.  However,  it  is  a  different  '  Sorge,'  and  therefore  requires  a 
different  treatment.  A  word  in  regard  to  the  '  Frau  Sorge '  which  hovered 
over  Paul  Meyhofer's  life,  may  be  in  place.  An  observant  reader  will 
notice  that  the  theme  of  Paul's  mother's  life,  as  seen  in  her  actions  and 
poems,  is  repentance.  In  Paul's  early  childhood,  repentance  checked  his 
development.  Under  the  influence  of  the  confirmation  hour  he  felt  re- 
pentance. And  when  the  organ  was  pealing  out,  '  Lobe  den  Herrn,  den 
machtigen  Konig  der  Ehren,'  Paul  noticed  at  the  altar  the  picture  of  Mag- 
dalene, and  whispered  '  Frau  Sorge.'  One  sees  the  influence  of  repentance 
throughout  the  book.  Finally  Paul  recognizes  what  has  been  retarding  his 
development.  In  his  confession  before  the  court  he  said:  '  Mir  fehlte  die 
Wiirde  und  das  Selbstbewusstsein,  —  ich  vergab  mir  zu  viel  gegeniiber  den 
Menschen  und  mir  selber.'  Repentance  is  his  real  '  Frau  Sorge.'  But  the 
poet  must  not  allow  Paul  to  despair.  Along  with  the  influence  of  repent- 
ance one  sees  the  development  of  Paul's  individuality  with  the  growth  of  his 
4  Weltanschauung.'  Different  phases  of  mastery  are  shown  throughout. 
The  desire  '  das  ich  zu  betatigen,'  is  aroused  more  and  more.  Slowly,  but 
surely,  Paul  is  prepared  for  the  decisive  moment  when  his  inner  self  must 
assert  its  supremacy.  He  recognizes  that  no  one  can  live  for  him,  and  that 
he  must  free  himself  before  he  can  begin  to  live  an  independent  life.  When 
he  recognizes  this  fact  his  '  Frau  Sorge '  loses  its  magic  and  powerful  con- 


THE  MOTIVATION  OF  PARSIVAL  123 

trol.  He  has  gained  his  individuality,  he  has  conquered  through  his  own 
experiences  and  exertions.  From  now  on  '  Wiirde  '  and  '  Selbstbewusstsein  ' 
are  no  longer  lacking  in  his  life.  And  that  certainly  is  a  solution  of  the 
problem  which  the  artist  undertook  to  solve. 

Frenssen,  although  he  treats  different  '  Sorgen,'  recognizes  '  selbstbe- 
wusstsein '  in  the  development  of  manhood.  However,  in  accordance  with 
his  experiences  and  vocation,  he  adds  one  important  element.  He  recom- 
mends the  Christian  '  Weltanschauung.'  His  '  Jorn  Uhl '  illustrates  the  de- 
velopment of  a  man  within  the  newer,  or  perhaps,  better,  within  the  con- 
ception of  Christianity,  as  Frenssen  sees  it.  Sudermann,  however,  has  not 
overlooked  the  strong,  invisible,  blessing  forces  which  are  to  be  found  in 
the  New  Testament.  We  see  these  forces  in  '  Frau  Sorge,'  not  as  visible 
as  in  'Jorn  Uhl,'  but  powerfully  present.  With  Sudermann  it  is  more  the 
religion  of  the  layman  than  that  of  the  pastor,  but  none  the  less  religion. 

The  broad-minded  reader,  quoting  indirectly  from  Stern,  will  observe 
that  the  fundamental  idea  is  that  sorrow  has  blighted  the  youth  of  many 
excellent  and  capable  young  men,  and  that  only  the  strength  of  the  oppor- 
tune moment  of  victorious  decision  can  rescue,  remains  true  for  thousands. 
He  will  see  that  it  is  the  object  of  the  poets  to  treat  the  inner  life,  the  poeti- 
cal side  of  an  oppressed  nature,  and  to  search  for  the  divine  spark  in  the 
harshness  of  stern  duty.  He  will  find  both  Sudermann  and  Frenssen  out- 
spoken opponents  of  those  poets  who  need  a  beautiful,  externally  gentile 
man  in  order  to  find  human  life  worthy  of  representation.  They  have  thus 
recognized  that  a  'simple,  deep  life  is  worth  relating.'  That  alone  is  suffi- 
cient to  assure  a  lasting  influence  on  German  literature.  Sudermann  accom- 
plished this  in  'Frau  Sorge'  in  1887. 

The  Motivation  of  Wagner" *s  Parsival 

By  Paul  H.  Grummann 

HATEVER  the  final  estimate  of  Wagner  as  a  poet  may  be, 
it  can  not  be  denied  that  he  is  without  a  peer  in  the  recon- 
struction of  older  themes.  His  skill  in  this  respect  has 
led  Prof.  Wolfgang  Golther  to  the  statement  that  Wag- 
ner in  his  '  Der  Ring  des  Nibelungen '  has  successfully 
reconstructed  the  whole  body  of  myths  of  which  only  a 


i24  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

paltry  fragment  is  preserved  in  the  Eddas.  While  this  statement  contains 
a  compliment  which  the  author  deserves  in  a  manner,  it  involves  a  serious 
error.  Wagner  was  so  steeped  in  his  philosophy  that  he  was  quite  unable 
to  reconstruct  an  old  system  of  myths  objectively,  nor  did  he  care  to  do  so. 
Consciously  and  unconsciously  he  interpreted  into  his  material  the  world 
conception  which  he  had  come  to  accept.  Consequently  '  Der  Ring  des 
Nibelungen  '  embodies  the  pessimism  of  Schopenhauer  and  not  the  rugged 
view  of  life  held  by  the  old  Icelandic  bards.  This  does  not  detract  from 
the  merits  of  the  modern  author,  for  it  is  essential  for  the  great  poet  that 
he  make  his  poetry  reflect  his  convictions. 

A  comparison  of  Wagner's  Parsifal  with  the  main  source  of  the  drama 
will  likewise  show  the  marked  pessimism  of  the  poet.  It  is  hardly  surpris- 
ing that  Nietsche  broke  all  bonds  with  Wagner  when  this  play  appeared, 
for  its  philosophy  is  the  very  antipode  of  Nietsche's  positive,  joyous,  and 
optimistic  system  of  thought.  What  is  indicated  in  the  gloomy  figure  of 
Wotan  in  the  'Ring'  is  but  carried  to  its  logical  conclusion  in  Parsifal. 
Nowhere  is  the  pessimistic  doctrine  of  renunciation  preached  in  a  more  merci- 
less manner,  hence  Nietsche  saw  nothing  short  of  treason  to  human  nature 
in  the  play. 

Naturally  the  epic  breadth  of  the  medieval  poet  disappears  in  the  li- 
bretto of  Wagner.  With  extraordinary  skill  the  essential  features  are  ab- 
stracted from  the  fourteen  thousand  lines  of  the  older  poet  and  reconstructed 
in  accordance  with  the  author's  conception.  Long  as  the  musical  dramas 
may  appear,  we  can  but  marvel  at  Wagner's  genius  for  condensation.  The 
medieval  poem  is  crowded  with  incidents,  while  the  newer  version  is  stripped 
of  all  minor  adventures.  Complex  situations  are  simplified.  Wolfram, 
for  instance,  presents  Titurel  as  the  father  of  Frimuntel,  whose  children  are 
Amphortas,  Trevrezent,  and  Schoiziana.  This  is  reduced  by  making  Am- 
phortas  the  son  of  Titurel  and  eliminating  the  other  characters.  Similarly 
Parsifal's  father  is  merely  referred  to,  and  his  half-brother,  who  plays  an 
important  part  in  the  older  poem,  is  dropped  entirely. 

Wolfram  presents  Gawain  as  a  pseudo-Parsifal.  He  is  zealous  in 
behalf  of  Amphortas,  rides  out  and  champions  the  cause  of  the  grail  in  a 
large  number  of  adventures,  appears  at  the  service  of  the  grail  and  asks  all 
necessary  questions,  indeed  conforms  with  all  formalities  essential  to  the 
recovery  of  the  sufferer,  but  fails;  while  Parsifal  without  thinking  of  the 


THE  MOTIVATION  OF  PARSIVAL  125 

formalities  succeeds  on  account  of  his  inherent  goodness.  Wagner  simply 
has  Gawain  seek  for  a  remedy  for  Amphortas  and  lets  him  depart  from  the 
castle  in  despair  when  he  fails  to  find  it.  It  is  apparent  at  once  that  Wag- 
ner in  this  instance  has  not  merely  condensed  but  suppressed  elements  that 
did  not  serve  his  purpose.  The  medieval  poet  tried  to  show  the  importance 
of  a  faith  not  dominated  by  formality,  a  fruitful  task,  but  not  in  accordance 
with  Wagner's  conception  of  the  theme  and  hence  the  changes  already  noted. 

The  early  adventures  of  Parsifal  are  suppressed  entirely  because  they 
would  make  him  appear  too  worldly.  He  does  not  join  Arthur's  knights 
of  the  Round  Table,  for  in  spite  of  their  ultimate  virtues  they  were  sur- 
rounded by  worldly  glamour.  Wagner's  Parsifal  is  associated  only  with 
the  knights  of  the  grail,  who  must  be  pure  in  heart  and  also  renounce  all 
thoughts  of  worldly  glory.  The  medieval  Parsifal  is  married  to  Kond- 
wiramur,  and  has  two  sons,  one  of  whom  is  Lohengrin.  Since  Wagner 
considered  the  relation  of  marriage  incompatible  with  the  real  service  of 
the  grail,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  retain  this  feature.  In  spite  of  his 
marriage  vows  Wolfram's  Parsifal  is  tempted  by  Guinevere,  whom  he  serves 
in  a  large  number  of  adventures.  Absolute  chastity  then  was  regarded  es- 
sential to  the  Parsifal  of  Wagner. 

Nowhere  in  the  drama,  however,  is  there  a  more  complete  change  than 
in  the  conception  of  Kundry.  In  Wolfram's  poem  she  is  an  insignificant 
witch,  who  serves  merely  as  a  messenger  of  the  grail.  Wagner  eliminates  all 
of  the  other  female  characters  of  his  source  and  presents  a  composite  figure 
in  Kundry.  Not  only  this,  but  she  becomes  by  far  the  most  important  char- 
acter of  the  drama  in  accordance  with  the  larger  purposes  of  the  plot.  She 
becomes  the  cause  of  the  wound  of  Amphortas,  she  is  to  blame  for  the  loss 
of  the  sacred  spear,  she  is  the  source  of  the  mysterious  power  which  threatens 
the  grail  at  the  hands  of  Klingsor.  Although  she  brings  comfort  to  the 
wounded  Amphortas,  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  remedy  is  only  pallia- 
tive; in  a  measure  she  deceives  him  into  a  temporary  belief  that  he  is  relieved. 
She,  to  Wagner,  is  the  source  of  all  evil,  burdened  as  she  is  with  the  curse 
of  tempting  men,  and  hence  the  chaste  Parsifal  must  withstand  her  wiles  in 
order  to  carry  out  his  mission. 

In  his  portrayal  of  Kundry,  Wagner  has  utilized  certain  characteristics 
of  '  die  rauhe  Else '  described  most  minutely  in  the  legend  of  Wolfdietrich. 
Else,  according  to  the  medieval  legend,  is  a  princess  who,  under  a  powerful 


126  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

charm,  has  been  converted  into  a  faun-like  creature.  Wolfdietrich  in  the 
course  of  his  adventures  finds  and  liberates  her  from  her  charm  by  kissing 
her  three  times,  although  at  each  kiss  she  is  converted  into  a  more  hideous 
creature.  Since  Wolfdietrich's  courage  does  not  fail,  he  is  rewarded  by 
the  hand  of  the  liberated  princess.  Kundry  in  Wagner's  drama  similarly  is 
burdened  with  an  awful  curse  from  which  some  one  must  liberate  her.  In- 
stead of  changing  forms,  she  assumes  three  distinct  personalities,  probably 
the  most  effective  feature  of  the  drama.  At  first  she  tries  to  win  Parsifal 
by  reminding  him  of  his  dead  mother  whose  place  she  tries  to  take  in  his 
affections.  Then  she  appeals  to  his  sense  of  pity.  Finally  she  makes  it 
appear  that  her  salvation  depends  upon  his  love.  She  is  liberated,  how- 
ever, by  the  abstinence  and  not  the  love  of  the  hero.  While  Else  marries 
her  hero,  Kundry  henceforth  lives  a  life  of  renunciation,  devotes  herself  to 
menial  service  and  meekly  anoints  the  feet  of  Parsifal. 

In  Wolfram's  poem  Guinevere  laughs  at  the  approach  of  the  clownish 
Parsifal,  who  serves  her  in  a  large  number  of  rather  questionable  adventures. 
Wagner  makes  this  laughter  the  token  of  the  potency  of  Kundry's  terrible 
curse, 

'  Und  wiederkehrt  mir  das  verfluchte  Lachen ' 
[Again  the  accursed  laughter  comes  upon  me] 

The  change  is  not  only  in  harmony  with  the  poet's  general  plan,  but  adds  a 
dramatic  intensity  to  the  character  of  Kundry  that  is  of  supreme  impor- 
tance. 

Parsifal's  resistance  to  Kundry's  wiles  demonstrates  that  he  can  not  be 
tempted  and  breaks  the  power  of  Klingsor,  who  at  Wagner's  hands  has  also 
undergone  a  complete  transformation.  In  the  source  he  is  merely  a  magi- 
cian, a  heathen,  and  therefore  a  foe  of  the  grail.  The  fact  that  medieval 
legends  report  that  the  grail  and  spear  were  put  into  the  hands  of  the  angels 
who  had  remained  neutral  in  the  rebellion  of  Lucifer,  probably  suggested  to 
Wagner  the  conception  of  Klingsor  as  the  prince  of  evil,  the  sworn  foe  of 
God.  This  is  indicated  most  clearly  by  the  fact  that  Klingsor  has  belonged 
to  the  knights  of  the  grail  and  has  lost  his  place  among  them  on  account  of 
his  wickedness.  Klingsor  represents  the  force  of  evil  and  the  most  powerful 
weapon  in  the  hands  of  this  evil  one  is  Kundry,  the  beautiful  woman.  Just 
as  Siegfried  in  the  '  Ring '  learns  to  fear  in  consequence  of  his  love  and  ac- 


MODERN  GERMAN  LITERATURE  127 

complishes  his  own  ruin,  Parsifal  succeeds  in  his  exalted  mission  because  he 
does  not  succumb  to  it. 

It  is  this  attitude  to  woman  which  most  conclusively  classifies  Wagner 
as  a  pessimist.  In  the  negation  of  natural  instincts,  the  pessimist  reasons 
that  woman's  temptation  is  the  natural  source  of  evil,  since  this  temptation 
prolongs  what  he  calls  '  the  fever  of  existence.'  Whatever  exists  is  doomed 
to  decay  and  acquiescence  is  the  only  wise  course.  This  is  the  dominant 
note  in  the  later  dramas  of  Wagner,  and  the  motivation  of  the  '  Ring '  and 
especially  Parsifal  proves  conclusively  that  he  was  conscious  of  the  world 
conception  to  which  he  gave  expression.  He  not  only  turned  to  a  period 
which  was  famous  for  its  acts  of  self-abnegation,  but  recast  these  characters 
with  a  philosophical  rigidness  entirely  foreign  to  Wolfram.  Even  if  we 
were  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  poet  took  more  than  a  passive  interest  in 
the  philosophical  discussions  of  his  day,  a  comparison  of  his  drama  with 
Wolfram's  epic  would  convince  us  that  his  chief  interest  in  his  swan  song 
was  its  philosophy. 

Modern   German  Literature* 

By  John   Scholte  Noller 

ANY  book  that  will  broaden  or  deepen  the  acquaintance  of  the 
American  public  with  current  German  literature  is  to  be 
heartily  welcomed.  Professor  Heller's  '  Studies  in  Modern 
German  Literature '  is  such  a  book,  intended  frankly  and 
plainly  for  the  public,  not  for  the  specialist,  written  in  a  pop- 
ular, breezy  style,  giving  what  the  public  wants  first  of  all  — 
a  mixture  of  descriptive  and  judicial  criticism. 

The  book  is  hardly  what  its  title  may  suggest  at  first  sight.  It  is  in 
no  sense  a  history  of  modern  German  literature,  or  of  the  German  literature 
of  the  nineteenth  century;  it  is  not  even  a  comprehensive  study  of  contem- 
porary German  literature;  and  the  reader  who  seeks  in  this  book  for  a  dis- 
quisition on  '  influences '  and  '  movements  '  will  be  disappointed.  It  con- 
sists of  two  elaborate  essays  on  Sudermann  and  Hauptmann,  each  covering 

*Studies  in  Modern  German  Literature,  by  Otto  Heller,  Ph.D.;  Ginn  &  Co., 
Boston,  1905;  pp.  viii,  301. 


128  RECENT  GERMAN  CRITICISM 

over  one  hundred  pages,  followed  by  a  sort  of  appendix  of  sixty-five  pages, 
in  which  the  names  and  principal  works  of  some  forty  women  authors  of  the 
last  century  and  the  present  day  are  passed  in  rapid  review.  The  book  thus 
has  no  logical  plan,  no  organic  unity;  still,  if  there  are  plenty  of  logical 
books,  but  few  that  are  both  instructive  and  entertaining,  the  author  need 
make  no  apology  for  the  apparently  lawless  structure  of  his  work. 

The  method  of  study  in  the  essays  on  Sudermann  and  Hauptmann  is 
direct  and  simple.  The  plays  and  novels  are  analyzed  in  chronological  order 
—  save  for  occasional  grouping  on  another  basis  —  and  with  the  telling 
of  the  '  story '  the  author  gives  his  view  of  the  structure,  characterization, 
and  ethical  significance  of  the  works  reviewed.  The  author  has  the  gift 
that  is  essential  to  the  success  of  the  method  used;  he  knows  how  to  make 
an  '  outline  of  the  action  '  interesting  and  intelligible  to  the  general  reader, 
and  he  steers  clear  of  the  dryness  and  lifelessness  usually  found  in  such  out- 
lines. In  fact,  the  literature  studied  is  '  seen  through  a  temperament,' 
and  the  temperament  is  vivacious  and  original  enough  to  make  the  result 
pleasant  as  well  as  informing  to  the  reader.  For  this  very  reason  criticism 
of  the  work  is  made  difficult,  since  it  resolves  itself  almost  inevitably  into  a 
dispute  de  gustibus.  The  present  generation  is  still  far  from  occupying  the 
1  view  point  of  eternity '  with  reference  to  such  authors  as  Sudermann  and 
Hauptmann,  and  hence  it  would  be  folly  to  attempt  a  dogmatic  denial  of 
any  of  Professor  Heller's  judgments,  which  must  simply  be  taken  with  the 
proper  allowance  for  the  personal  equation,  as  is  always  the  case  with  im- 
pressionistic criticism.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  these  judgments  represent 
the  opinion  of  a  keen  and  independent  observer,  and  as  such  are  worthy  of  a 
respectful  hearing. 

In  one  respect,  the  author  of  the  '  Studies '  seems  somewhat  partisan, 
or  rather,  seems  to  be  affected  by  an  unconscious  reaction  against  the  tend- 
ency of  recent  German  criticism.  It  has  been  so  customary  in  Germany, 
during  the  last  few  years,  to  overrate  Hauptmann  and  to  make  light  of 
Sudermann,  that  a  corrective  of  this  injustice  was  quite  in  order;  but  Pro- 
fessor Heller  makes  such  an  effort  to  stand  straight  against  this  German 
current  that  he  leans  backward.  The  result  is  that  the  essay  on  Sudermann 
might  also  be  headed  '  For  the  defense,'  and  that  on  Hauptmann  '  For  the 
prosecution;'  and  as  the  American  public,  for  which  the  book  is  intended, 
knows  little  or  nothing  of  the  reason  for  this  distribution  of  emphasis,  the 


MODERN  GERMAN  LITERATURE  129 

reader  is  apt  to  be  somewhat  misled  by  it.  Not  that  there  is  any  real  par- 
tisanship in  the  author's  attitude;  for  while  the  first  essay  is  sympathetic  in 
tone,  it  does  not  cover  up  Sudermann's  insufficiencies;  and  though  the 
criticism  of  Hauptmann  is  severe,  it  recognizes  what  is  fine  and  great  in  the 
feminine  genius  of  the  poet  of  the  "  Sunken  Bell." 

One  other  general  criticism,  or  caution,  seems  in  order.  Professor 
Heller  makes  the  impression  of  approaching  his  critical  task  with  rather  too 
fixed  and  rigid  a  theory  of  the  drama  —  a  theory  that  could  be  used,  mutatis 
mutandis,  to  discredit  many  of  the  world's  greatest  dramas,  and  that  leads 
the  author,  for  example,  to  impugn  the  dramatic  significance  of  Goethe's 
'  Faust.'  Especially  in  these  days,  when  the  old  standards  and  laws  of  lit- 
erary form  are  so  generally  disregarded,  is  it  peculiarly  unjust  to  the  genius 
of  a  great  poet  to  measure  his  work  by  his  observance  of  such  standards  or 
laws.  Hauptmann  suffers  from  such  a  test,  as  Maeterlinck  would,  and  as 
Sudermann  does  not;  the  handicap  is  hardly  a  fair  one. 

As  already  intimated,  the  chapter  on  the  Women  Writers  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Century  has  no  organic  connection  with  the  rest  of  the  book.  It  is 
interesting  and  valuable  in  itself,  however,  as  a  brief  review  of  the  contribu- 
tion of  the  other  sex  to  German  literature  during  the  last  hundred  years; 
and  the  slight  acquaintance  of  the  average  American  with  this  important 
field  of  literary  endeavor  justifies  the  attention  here  given  to  it. 


LINUS:  A  LAMENT  AT  THE  GATH 
ERING  OF  THE  VINTAGE 

By  Edith  M.  Thomas 

OW  the  golden  tire  of  Phoebus 

Turns,  to  trace  its  shortest  arc; 
Now,  no  more  sings  Philomela 

From  the  leafy  turret  dark  — 
Nightingale  and  swallow  flitting, 

Voiceless,  to  the  Libyan  shore; 
Now,  upon  Demeter's  daughter 

Shuts  the  sunken  iron  door  — 

And  now,  young  Linus  is  no  more. 

He  was  with  us  at  the  pruning 

Ere  the  leaf  shot  forth  the  vine; 
He  was  with  us  in  the  Maytime 

When  the  buds  were  red  as  wine,  — 
With  us,  when  the  summer  dewfall 

Made  the  meadows  silvery  hoar, 
Shared  our  nooning  in  the  shadow, 

Shared  the  toiler's  homely  store  — 

But  Linus  shares  with  us  no  more. 

He  is  fled,  —  the  well-beloved 

With  the  lighted  eyes  of  dawn, 
With  the  tresses  of  sea-amber, 

And  the  footstep  of  the  fawn   ! 
If  the  red-eyed  pack  of  Sirius 

His  fair-fashioned  body  tore, 
There  was  found  no  stain  of  crimson 

On  the  path  his  footstep  wore; 

Yet  Linus  —  Linus  comes  no  more. 

He  is  strangely  parted  from  us, 

None  received  his  passing-sigh! 
Now,  the  evening-purple  clusters 

(130) 


EDITH  M.  THOMAS  131 

Heavy  on  the  trellis  lie : 
When  we  crush  those  purple  clusters 

Filled  with  sweetness  to  the  core  — 
Lo !   it  is  the  life  of  Linus 

That  the  presses  shall  outpour; 

But  Linus  we  shall  see  no  more. 

He  is  gone  with  all  of  beauty, 

Withered  from  the  season's  crown, 
One  by  one,  slow-faltering  downward  — 

As  these  vine-leaves  falter  down ! 
Otherwhere   is   other  mourning  — 

Ay,  the  boatman  stills  his  oar, 
Stays  the  shepherd,  winding  foldward, 

At  far  cries  that,  searching  sore, 

Make  murmur  of  no  more!  no  more! 

This  the  burden,  this  the  sorrow, 

Where  they  winnow  out  the  corn ; 
This  the  burden  breathing  lonely 

Through  the  hunter's  unblown  horn ! 
Say,  to  those  that  mourn  Adonis, 

Trampled  by  the  mountain  boar  — 
Say  to  those  that  yet  mourn  Daphnis, 

On  the  misty  threshing  floor, 

That  Linus  —  Linus  is  no  more  ! 

Ask  if  they  have  hope  of  Daphnis 

When  the  morrow  spring  is  born : 
Will  he  rise  among  the  furrows, 

Midst  the  tender  blades  of  corn? 
Ask  the  foresters  if  Cypris 

Their  Adonis  will  restore?  — 
Plenteous  flowers  wake  after  Winter,  — 

Not  the  flower  that  bloomed  before! 

And  Linus  —  Linus  wakes  no  more. 


SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF 
»    SHAKESPEARE 

By  Frederick  W.  Kilbourne 

TWO  previous  articles  in  Poet  Lore  have  been  devoted  to  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  whole  subject  of  versions  of  Shakespeare  before 
1800,  and  to  a  catalogue  raisonne  of  such  works,  with  a  short 
characterization  of  those  about  which  information  is  obtain- 
able. Even  the  brief  statements  or  descriptions  therein  given 
are  sufficient  to  indicate  that  many  of  these  alterations  differ 
greatly,  and  some  of  them  very  strangely,  from  their  originals. 

Thinking  that  it  may  be  of  interest  to  have  fuller  accounts  of  some 
of  the  more  curious  of  these  products  of  the  perverse  ingenuity  of  Shake- 
speare's adapters  and  would-be  improvers,  I  have  selected  for  this  purpose 
several  of  the  remade  plays,  whose  right  to  be  characterized  as  strange  will 
be  conceded,  I  am  sure,  to  be  beyond  dispute. 

The  first  I  shall  take  up  is  Charles  Johnson's  alteration  of  'As  You 
Like  It,'  which,  for  the  sake  of  having  a  more  significant  title,  he  called 
Love  in  a  Forest.  Johnson,  who  was  a  tavern-keeper  as  well  as  a  writer 
of  plays,  and  as  a  poetaster  of  the  time  is  said  to  be  mentioned  in  one  of 
the  versions  of  the  '  Dunciad,'  dedicated  the  printed  copies  of  his  play  to 
the  Worshipful  Society  of  Free  Masons,  of  which  he  was  evidently  an 
enthusiastic  member. 

The  play,  when  acted  in  1723,  met  with  no  success,  and  was  withdrawn 
after  six  performances.  Strangely  enough,  its  original  seems  to  have  been 
entirely  unknown  to  the  stage  of  the  period,  for  there  is  no  record  of  its 
representation  from  the  Restoration  until  1740,  when  it  was  acted  about 
twenty-five  times  at  Drury  Lane.  This  fact  makes  all  the  more  laudable 
Johnson's  desire,  as  expressed  in  his  prologue,  of  restoring  to  the  stage 
one  more  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  had  he  been  content  with  this  and  not 
have  deemed  it  necessary  to  revise  Shakespeare  for  the  purpose,  we  should 
have  been  much  indebted  to  him.  But  unfortunately  his  judgment  was  at 
fault  and  he  stultified  himself  by  his  declaration  that  he  had  '  refined  his 
[Shakespeare's]  ore,'  'weeded  the  beautiful  parterre,'  and  'restored  the 
scheme  from  time  and  error.'  Behold  the  result  of  the  refining,  weeding, 
and  restoring  processes !     Touchstone.  Audrey,  William,  Corin,  and  Phoebe 

(132) 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  ^33 

are  removed  root  and  branch.  Silvius  appears  only  in  Act  II,  Scene  4, 
where  he  speaks  about  twenty  lines  given  to  Corin  in  the  original.  .  How 
the  deficiency  thus  created  is  made  up  will  be  seen  in  the  course  of  the  account 
of  the  play,  which  follows. 

The  first  two  acts  are  not  greatly  changed.  A  ludicrous  modification 
is  that  of  the  wrestling  bout  to  a  combat  in  the  lists,  before  beginning  which 
Charles  and  Orlando  defy  each  other  with  the  speeches  of  Bolingbroke  and 
Norfolk  in  '  Richard  the  Second,'  I.  i.  Jacques  himself  reports  his  moral- 
izing on  the  deer,  a  change  approved  by  Genest  but  criticized  by  Furness 
as  '  obliterating  one  of  Shakespeare's  artistic  touches,  whereby  an  important 
character  is  described  and  the  keynote  struck  before  he  himself  appears." 

More  considerable  changes  appear  in  the  Third  Act.  The  verses  which 
Celia  ought  to  read  are  omitted,  and  she  makes  the  comments  and  verses 
given  to  Touchstone  in  Shakespeare's  play.  After  Orlando  and  Jacques 
enter,  the  chief  change  in  the  play  is  instituted,  namely,  the  wooing  of  Celia 
by  Jacques.  This  is  done  in  the  words  of  Touchstone  to  Audrey,  patched 
with  some  speeches  of  Benedick's  from  '  Much  Ado,'  the  whole  dialogue 
being  given  an  eighteenth  century  tone.  This  '  monstrous  device,'  curiously 
enough,  anticipates  George  Sand's  French  version  of  the  play,  Comme  il 
Vous  Plana,  but  the  coincidence  is  undoubtedly  a  mere  accident,  as  it  is 
not  likely  she  had  read  Johnson's  play. 

The  Fourth  Act  opens  with  a  conversation  in  which  Jacques  tells  Rosa- 
lind of  his  love  for  Celia.  Viola's  speech,  '  She  never  told  her  love,'  etc.,  is 
inserted  in  the  scene  between  Rosalind  and  Orlando.  It  is  Robert  Du  Bois 
who  brings  Rosalind  Orlando's  excuse  for  not  keeping  his  promise,  and 
he  is  the  brother  who  is  rescued  from  the  lioness.  Oliver  is  reported  as 
having  made  away  with  himself  to  escape  punishment,  thus  making  Orlando 
his  father's  heir. 

Of  course,  the  changes  already  made  affect  the  denouement  somewhat, 
but  the  play  ends  substantially  as  in  Shakespeare,  except  that  Jacques  marries 
Celia.  To  compensate  for  the  omitted  portions,  the  burlesque  play  of 
Pyramus  and  Thisbe  from  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream '  is  dragged  in, 
being  represented  before  the  Duke  during  the  interval  between  the  exit  of 
the  disguised  Rosalind  and  her  return  in  her  true  character. 

Johnson's  chief  purpose  appears  to  have  been  to  give  the  play  greater 
unity  of  action  by  limiting  the  action  to  fewer  characters  and  to  improve 
the  characterizations  of  the  chief  persons.     In  following  out  the  first  design 


i34        SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

he  has  deprived  us  of  some  of  the  best  of  the  original;  how  lamentably  he 
has  failed  in  the  second  is  almost  too  obvious  from  the  foregoing  account 
of  his  strange  changes  to  need  comment. 

What  shall  be  said  of  the  transformation  of  the  melancholy  Jacques 
into  an  eighteenth  century  lover?  It  is  certainly  most  remarkable.  One 
of  Shakespeare's  most  distinctive  characters,  a  universal  favorite  nowadays, 
is  to  our  minds  thereby  entirely  spoiled.  Nothing  but  a  complete  failure 
to  comprehend  the  great  dramatist's  purpose  or  ignorance  of  true 
dramatic  art  could  have  brought  about  such  a  perversion.  The  comedy  is, 
as  Furness  points  out,  so  thoroughly  English  that  it  cannot  be  transplanted 
to  German  or  French  soil.  The  Germans  cannot  appreciate  the  sparkling 
wit  and  vivacity  of  Rosalind,  and  consequently  turn  to  Jacques  and  Touch- 
stone as  the  leading  characters.  How  it  strikes  a  French  mind  may  be 
learned  from  an  examination  of  Sand's  Comme  II  Vous  Plana,  in  which 
Jacques  is  made  the  hero,  being  converted  from  a  misogynist  into  a  jealous 
lover,  almost  provoked  to  a  duel  with  Orlando  by  Celia's  coquetry.  John- 
son's mind  seems  to  have  undergone  a  sort  of  Frenchification,  if  one  may 
so  speak,  the  process  being  checked,  however,  before  it  was  completed,  so 
that  he  did  not  carry  the  change  in  the  characterization  of  Jacques  so  far 
as  his  French  successor.  At  any  rate,  both,  it  will  be  admitted,  have  debased 
the  character  most  effectually.  Perhaps  the  best  criticism  on  the  trans- 
formed Jacques  is  that  which  Johnson  makes  Celia  herself  utter,  '  Jacques's 
love  looks  a  little  awkward ;  it  does  not  sit  so  easy  on  him.'  We  should, 
however,  amend  it  by  making  the  language  stronger. 

The  omission  of  Touchstone  and  Audrey  deprives  us  of  some  of  the 
most  delightful  comedy  to  be  found  anywhere,  and  that  of  Corin  and  Phoebe 
lowers  the  characterization  of  Rosalind  somewhat  by  taking  away  from  her 
her  desire  to  make  a  lover  happy  by  using  her  good  offices  in  his  behalf. 

Another  useless  and  very  bad  change  is  the  removal  of  Oliver  and  the 
substitution  of  Robert  as  the  brother  rescued  by  Orlando.  This  was  made 
necessary  by  the  change  in  the  lover  of  Celia.  Perhaps,  also,  Johnson  had 
in  mind  poetical  justice,  which  would  be,  in  his  opinion,  better  satisfied  by 
having  Oliver  take  his  own  life.  But  how  much  it  injures  the  conception  of 
Orlando,  besides  removing  one  of  the  chief  teachings  of  the  play,  the  lesson 
of  forgiveness,  to  take  away  from  him  the  opportunity  to  show  his  mag- 
nanimity in  preserving  and   forgiving  an   enemy !      We  must  admit  that 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  135 

Oliver's  conversion  is  a  little  sudden,  the  great  dramatist  being  undoubtedly 
influenced  not  a  little  by  the  dramatic  convention  which  called  for  a  pairing 
off  of  the  chief  characters  in  the  fifth  act.  Nevertheless,  one  gets  a  fresh 
admiration  for  Shakespeare's  genius,  in  observing  his  method  of  '  making 
earthly  things  even,'  as  compared  with  that  of  his  uninspired  reviser. 

A  greater  Johnson  has  lamented  that  Shakespeare  lost  the  opportunity 
for  a  fine  piece  of  moralizing,  in  not  recording  the  conversation  between  the 
usurping  duke  and  the  hermit.  Fortunately  this  idea  did  not  occur  to  his 
lesser  namesake,  for  which  we  may  be  grateful. 

The  dialogue  when  Shakespeare  is  followed  is  not  greatly  altered,  but 
of  course  Johnson's  changes  and  omissions  make  necessary  much  of  his  own 
composition. 

As  a  concluding  word  it  may  be  affirmed  that  this  version  is  an  ex- 
tremely bad  transformation  of  Shakespeare's  most  charming  comedy.  As 
we  have  seen,  it  was  the  opinion  even  of  Johnson's  contemporaries  that 
this  play  was  not  good. 

Another  pleasing  comedy  that  has  suffered  violence  at  the  hands  of 
revisers  and  adapters  is  '  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,'  as,  besides  being  al- 
tered, it  has  been  resorted  to  for  farces  and  afterpieces. 

The  chief  alteration  is  so  unique  as  to  be  well  worth  a  little  attention. 
Here,  again,  there  is  a  change  of  title,  but  in  this  case  it  is  a  much  more  vio- 
lent one.  Indeed  were  the  original  title  not  appended  as  a  subtitle  to  the 
altered  play,  the  disguise  would  be  complete.  Sauny,  the  Scot,  or  the  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew,  is  one  of  the  earliest  versions  of  Shakespeare,  for  it  was 
first  acted  in  April,  1667,  although  not  printed  until  1698.  It  is  attrib- 
uted, with  much  probability,  to  the  Actor  Lacy,  though  Langbaine  in  his 
account  of  dramatic  writers  does  not  speak  of  it  as  his.  Lacy  himself  took 
the  part  of  Sauny,  who  is  Grumio  turned  into  a  Scotchman.  The  play  met 
with  considerable  success,  although  Pepys,  who  records  seeing  it,  thought 
it  '  generally  but  a  mean  play '  with  '  some  very  good  pieces  in  it.' 

The  scene  of  the  play  is  transferred  to  London,  the  dialogue  is  short- 
ened and  strangely  enough  converted  into  prose,  and  the  fifth  act  is  almost 
entirely  new.  Petruchio  remains  as  in  the  original,  but  the  names  of  the 
most  of  the  other  dramatis  personse  are  changed.  Katherine  becomes 
Margaret,  daughter  of  Lord  Beaufoy  (Baptista).  In  Winlove,  son  of 
Sir  Lionel  Winlove,  and  a  country  gentleman  of  Oxford  education,  may  be 


136         SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

recognized  Lucentio,  now  become  an  Englishman.  Gremio,  Hortensio,  and 
Biondello  become  respectively  Woodall,  a  rich  old  citizen,  Geraldo,  and 
Jamy.  The  character  of  Sauny  is  much  more  important  than  that  of 
Grumio  in  Shakespeare's  play.  He  is  Petruchio's  Scotch  servant  and  a 
mere  buffoon.  Curiously  enough,  his  language,  which  is  often  coarse,  is 
not  Scotch  in  its  idiom  or  apparent  pronunciation,  but  Yorkshire  dialect. 
Margaret  and  Petruchio  talk  like  people  of  the  London  streets. 

The  Induction  is  omitted  —  not  a  bad  change,  as  its  representation  is 
unnecessary.  The  First  Act  is  very  short,  consisting  of  Shakespeare's  first 
scene  only.  The  second  scene  of  Act  I  and  the  whole  of  Act  II  constitute 
Lacy's  Second  Act.  Sauny  figures  very  prominently  in  this  act.  Act  III 
consists  of  Shakespeare's  Third  Act  with  the  first  two  scenes  of  his  Fourth 
Act.  Winlove  (Lucentio)  speaks  a  kind  of  French  English.  Petruchio 
makes  Margaret  smoke.  Snatchpenny,  a  London  thief,  has  the  part  of 
the  pedant.  The  remainder  of  Act  IV  and  the  first  scene  of  Act  V  of  the 
original  make  up  Lacy's  Fourth  Act.  Woodall  is  represented  as  hiring 
Winlove,  as  a  Frenchman,  to  woo  Bianca  for  him.  Act  V,  as  has  been 
said,  is  almost  entirely  Lacy's,  although  the  wager  on  the  wives'  obedience 
is  introduced.  It  consists  mainly  in  a  prolongation  of  Margaret's  resist- 
ance to  Petruchio.  He  declares  her  to  be  dead  and  orders  his  servants  to 
carry  her  out  and  bury  her.  The  wager  episode  follows  and  then  the  play 
ends  with  a  dance. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  play  has  thus  been  transformed  into  a  low 
comedy  or  into  a  mere  farce.  The  change  of  scene  has  been  attended  with 
a  marked  lowering  of  the  whole  tone  of  the  play  and  a  striking  degradation 
of  the  chief  characters.  For  this  the  little  good  humor  that  has  been  added 
is  far  from  compensating,  much  less  does  it  excuse  it.  The  prolongation 
of  Margaret's  stubbornness,  while  perhaps  good  fooling,  certainly  cannot 
be  called  an  improvement  or  even  a  welcome  addition.  Shakespeare  knew 
when  to  stop. 

On  the  whole,  the  play,  although  bad  enough  as  an  alteration  of 
Shakespeare,  is  still  a  fairly  good  play,  because  so  much  of  the  original  is 
retained.  There  was  no  call  to  change  the  setting  and  to  degrade  the  play. 
This  and  the  destruction  of  the  poetry  are  the  chief  features  to  be  con- 
demned. It  is  only  one  more  proof  of  the  lack  of  anything  like  reverence 
for  Shakespeare  among  the  playwrights  and  audiences  of  the  period,  that 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  '37 

such  a  version  could  be  made  and,  moreover,  be  tolerated,  let  alone  be  re- 
ceived with  applause,  as  it  was. 

I  pass  now  to  one  of  the  strangest  alterations  in  the  list,  James  Miller's 
The  Universal  Passion,  which  was  acted  nine  times  and  printed  in  1737. 
The  Old  Variorum  editors  put  it  down  as  a  pasticcio  of  '  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing,'  'As  You  Like  It,'  and  '  Love's  Labor's  Lost.'  This  is  not  so,  as 
there  is  nothing  from  either  of  the  latter  two.  Another  writer  describes 
it  as  an  alteration  of  'All's  Well  that  Ends  Well.'  It  is  evident  that  these 
authorities  had  not  read  the  play.  Any  one  seeing  simply  the  list  of  char- 
acters might  easily  be  led  to  think  it  an  alteration  of  several  of  Shakespear's 
plays,  but  there  is  no  excuse  for  stating  an  unverified  inference  as  a  fact. 

The  play  is,  in  truth,  a  wretched  jumble  of  '  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  ' 
and  Moliere's  '  Princess  of  Elis.'  Miller  in  his  prologue  acknowledges 
his  indebtedness  to  Shakespeare,  but  says  nothing  of  Moliere. 

The  scene  is  laid  at  Genoa  and  the  characters  (with  their  Shake- 
spearean equivalents)   are  as  follows: 

Protheus,  a  nobleman  of  Genoa  (Benedick)  ; 

Joculo,  the  court  jester; 

Bellario,  a  young  Venetian  lord  (Claudio)  ; 

Gratiano,  the  Duke  of  Genoa  (Leonato)  ; 

Byron,  bastard  brother  to  the  Duke  (Don  John)  ; 

Gremio  (Borachio  and  Conrade)  ; 

Porco   (Dogberry)  ; 

Asino  (Verges)  ; 

Lucilia  (Hero)  ; 

Liberia  (Beatrice)  ; 

Delia   (Margaret). 

Most  of  the  First  Act  is  from  Moliere,  somewhat  altered.  Bellario 
is  in  love  with  Lucilia,  but,  as  she  is  in  the  habit  of  treating  her  suitors  with 
contempt,  he  determines  to  affect  indifference  to  her.  He  engages  Joculo 
to  help  him.  Gratiano,  the  father  of  Lucilia,  expresses  to  her  his  wish 
that  she  should  marry  and  she  declares  to  him  her  aversion  to  matrimony. 
The  remainder  of  the  act,  consisting  mostly  of  a  wit  combat  between  Pro- 
theus and  Liberia,  is  from  the  first  and  third  scenes  of  the  First  Act  of 
'  Much  Ado.' 


138        SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

Moliere  furnishes  almost  all  of  Act  II,  although  some  dialogue  is 
taken  from  Shakespeare.  The  action  is  chiefly  occupied  with  the  affairs 
of  Bellario  and  Lucilia,  each  of  whom  pretends  to  be  in  love  with  some  one 
else. 

In  the  Third  Act,  the  first  part  of  which  is  chiefly  from  Moliere,  Lu- 
cilia consents  to  take  Bellario  after  Joculo  tells  her  that  her  suitor  has  res- 
cued her  father  from  two  ruffians  and  after  her  father  himself  urges  her 
to  do  so.  At  this  point  Miller  deserts  Moliere,  Lucilia  is  speedily  and  com- 
pletely metamorphosed  into  Shakespeare's  Hero,  and  the  play  follows 
Much  Ado  in  the  main,  though  with  many  changes  in  minor  details,  from 
Don  Pedro's  proposal  in  Act  II,  i,  to  bring  about  a  match  between  Benedick 
and  Beatrice  to  the  end. 

In  attempting  to  improve  upon  his  original  the  reviser  has  fallen  into 
many  absurdities.  In  particular,  the  Fifth  Act  is  badly  confused.  For 
example,  he  introduces  a  scene  between  Joculo  and  Delia  in  which  she  begs 
that  worthy  to  intercede  for  her  with  Lucilia,  at  a  time  when  that  lady  is 
supposed  to  be  dead. 

Miller  alters  the  dialogue  greatly,  introduces  lines  from  'Twelfth 
Night'  and  'Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,'  and  altogether  has  succeeded  in 
making  a  most  wretched  amalgamation  of  two  good  plays. 

It  cannot  be  supposed  that  a  compilation  from  Shakespeare  and  Mo- 
liere should  be  a  wholly  bad  play.  Even  the  most  violent  treatment  cannot 
rob  two  such  geniuses  of  their  vigor,  but  they  have  certainly  suffered  sadly 
at  the  hands  of  Miller.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  do  more  than  censure  the 
general  principle  this  alteration  exhibits.  To  make  a  play  by  combining 
different  plays  of  the  same  author's,  or  plays  in  the  same  language,  is  bad 
enough,  but  to  make  one  out  of  the  plays  of  authors  writing  in  different 
languages  is  too  contemptible  a  practice  on  which  to  waste  any  words.  Be- 
sides, in  this  case,  what  an  absurdity  to  metamorphose  suddenly  Moliere's 
vivacious  heroine,  who  somewhat  resembles  Beatrice,  into  the  quiet-spirited 
Hero ! 

As  a  final  word  on  Miller's  lack  of  art,  it  may  be  said  that  whenever 
he  varies  from  his  originals  he  alters  for  the  worse  and  often  succeeds  in 
spoiling  scenes  or  characters.  There  can  be  no  dissent  from  the  opinion 
that  this  is  about  the  most  outrageous  instance  of  lack  of  reverence  for  two 
great  masters  and  of  the  length  to  which  a  would-be  improver  of  Shake- 
speare will  go. 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  139 

There  is  no  better  example  of  the  fatuity  of  attempting  to  circumscribe 
the  romantic  drama  by  the  artificial  rules  of  the  classical  drama  than  the 
revision  now  to  be  considered,  the  two  tragedies  which  Sheffield  made  out 
of  '  Julius  Caesar.' 

John  Sheffield,  Earl  of  Mulgrave,  Marquis  of  Normanby,  and  Duke 
of  Buckinghamshire,  was  a  man  and  writer  of  no  little  reputation  in  his 
day.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of,  and  even  a  co-worker  with,  Dryden, 
who  spoke  of  him  as  '  Sharp-judging  Adriel,  the  Muses'  friend.  Himself 
a  muse,'  and  who  dedicated  to  him  his  'Auranzebe  '  and  his  translation  of 
the  JEne'id.  He  was  also  a  friend  of  Pope,  who  '  at  the  command  of  His 
Grace,'  wrote  two  of  the  choruses  in  the  Duke's  second  play.  Of  course, 
living  in  the  age  that  he  did,  he  would  be  likely  to  be  a  thoroughgoing 
classicist,  and  those  who  have  read  his  verse  Essay  on  Poetry  will  not  need 
to  be  told  that  he  was  in  accord  with  his  time.  This  being  the  case,  one 
can  readily  anticipate  that,  when  he  set  to  work  to  alter  '  Julius  Caesar,'  he 
would  have  the  intention  of  making  it  'regular'  if  possible,  and  such  we 
find  to  be  the  spirit  in  which  his  revision  was  made. 

His  alterations  were  never  acted,  but  were  published  by  his  duchess 
in  1722,  after  his  death.  In  order  to  observe  the  unities  and  to  bring 
Shakespeare's  play  into  harmony  with  the  classical  form,  he  divided  it,  as 
has  been  said,  into  two  plays,  which  he  called  '  The  Tragedy  of  Julius 
C<esar'  and  'The  Death  of  Marcus  Brutus,'  and  furnished  each  with  a  pro- 
logue and  choruses.      In  the  prologue  to  the  first  play,  he  says, 

'Hope  to  mend  Shakespeare!  or  to  match  his  style! 
'Tis  such  a  jest  would  make  a  stoic  smile. 
Too  fond  of  fame,  our  poet  soars  too  high; 
Yet  freely  owns  he  wants  the  wings  to  fly; 
That  he  confesses  while  he  does  the  fault.' 

If  such  was  his  real  opinion  we  wonder  at  his  vanity  in  undertaking 
this  well-nigh  impossible  task.  Sheffield  is  so  solicitous  lest  anyone  should 
think  he  neglects  to  observe  the  unity  of  time,  that  he  is  careful  to  state  that 
the  play  begins  the  day  before  Caesar's  death  and  ends  within  an  hour 
after  it. 

The  alterations  in  the  plot  of  the  first  play  are  slight,  but  the  diction 
is  much  changed  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  Sheffield's  own  poetry.  In 
the  First  Act,  all  the  low  comedy  is  omitted  and  the  offering  of  the  crown  is 


i40        SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

made  a  part  of  the  action.  In  Act  II,  the  scene  between  Brutus  and  Portia 
is  transformed  into  an  insipid  love  dialogue.  Calphurnia  is  omitted  in  Act 
III,  the  ill  omens  being  reported  by  the  priests.  Act  IV  is  without  change 
as  to  action.  Brutus's  address  is  turned  into  blank  verse  and  the  Fifth  Act 
ends  with  Antony's  address,  the  opening  lines  of  which  are  worth  quoting 
as  an  example  of  Sheffield's  improvement  upon  Shakespeare. 

'Friends,  countrymen,  and  Romans,  hear  me  gently; 
I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 
Lo  here  the  fatal  end  of  all  his  glory : 
The  evil  that  men  do,  lives  after  them; 
The  good  is  often  bury'd  in  their  graves; 
So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.     Noble  Brutus 
Has  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious: 
If  he  was  so,  then  he  was  much  to  blame; 
And  he  has  dearly  paid  for  his  offense. 
I  come  to  do  my  duty  to  dead  Caesar.' 

The  second  tragedy,  having  but  two  acts  of  the  original  to  draw  upon, 
called  for  much  additional  material.  Accordinglv  the  Duke  introduces 
several  new  characters,  as  Theodotus,  a  philosopher;  Dolabella;  Varius, 
a  young  Roman,  bred  at  Athens;  and  Junia,  wife  of  Cassius  and  sister  of 
Brutus.  In  reality,  an  almost  entirely  new  play  is  manufactured,  as  the 
first  three  acts  are  entirely  Sheffield's,  and  although  the  substance  of  the 
fourth  and  fifth  acts  is  Shakespeare's,  the  words  are  the  Duke's.  Many 
variations  are  made  even  when  the  scenes  are  founded  on  Shakespeare.  For 
instance,  instead  of  Pindarus  unwillingly  holding  the  sword  for  Cassius 
to  run  upon,  the  servant  kills  himself,  after  which  his  master,  encouraged 
by  his  example,  or  reproached  by  it,  stabs  himself.  This  is  precisely  as  in 
the  case  of  Eros  and  Antony,  in  'Antony  and  Cleopatra,'  which  probably 
suggested  the  change  here. 

The  scene  lies  at  Athens  in  the  first  three  acts  and  near  Philippi  in 
the  last  two.     The  Duke  apologizes  for  thus  violating  the  unity  of  place: 

'  Our  scene   is  Athens : 
But  here  our  author,  besides  other  faults 
Of  ill  expressions  and  of  vulgar  thoughts, 
Commits  one  crime  that  needs  an  act  of  grace 
And  breaks  the  law  of  unity  of  place.' 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  141 

Truly  an  audacious  thing  to  do !  The  unity  of  time,  however,  we  are 
informed,  has  been  preserved,  for  the  play  begins  the  day  before  the  battle 
of  Philippi  and  ends  with  that  event.  Here  the  Duke's  solicitude  has  made 
him  absurdly  inconsistent,  for  the  movements  could  not  be  made  from 
Athens  to  Philippi  in  the  time,  nor  could  Cassius  get  back  in  twenty-four 
hours  from  Sardis,  where  Junia  says  he  has  gone.  Probably  his  grace  did 
not  look  into  the  geography  of  his  scene,  which  is  unpardonable  in  so  great 
a  stickler  for  correctness. 

This  is  the  only  attempt  to  give  a  play  of  Shakespeare's  a  strictly  clas- 
sical form,  and  no  reader  of  the  Duke's  plays  will  have  any  doubt  as  to  the 
superiority  of  Shakespeare's  treatment.  The  best  excuse  for  Sheffield's 
two  plays  lies  in  Shakespeare's  duality  of  heroes.  But  Brutus  is  the  one 
upon  whom  Shakespeare  meant  to  fix  the  greatest  attention,  and  his  pur- 
pose is  to  show  how  Brutus's  misfortunes  come  as  the  result  of  his  one 
error  in  assassinating  Caesar —  doing  evil  that  good  may  come.  Shake- 
speare's reason  for  not  ending  his  play  with  the  murder  of  Caesar  appears  in 
the  words  of  Brutus  over  Cassius's  body: 

'O  Julius  Caesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet! 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad  and  turns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails.' 

But  the  critics,  among  them  the  Duke,  did  not  see  this  in  their  shortsighted- 
ness. 

The  battle  between  the  classicists  and  the  romanticists  over  the  unities 
has  been  fought  and  the  victory  lies  with  the  latter,  so  there  is  no  necessity 
for  a  discussion  of  them  here.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  attempt  to  make 
over  Shakespeare's  play  so  as  to  conform  to  them  has  resulted  in  a  very  bad 
alteration  of  it.  Sheffield's  inconsistency  has  been  pointed  out,  and  when, 
besides  his  violence  to  the  construction  of  the  play,  he  has  so  spoiled  the 
verse,  as  the  sample  given  abundantly  testifies,  we  can  have  nothing  but 
contempt  for  his  misguided  efforts. 

There  are  several  other  versions  that  might  properly  claim  a  place 
in  an  article  dealing  with  curious  ones.  Indeed,  so  many  of  them  belong 
more  or  less  to  this  category  that  it  is  difficult  to  choose  among  them.  But 
a  stop  must  be  made  somewhere,  and  so  I  have  fixed  upon  Otway's  Cains 
Marias  as  the  last  I  shall  describe.  This  play,  which  is,  strictly,  not  a 
version  of  Shakespeare  at  all  but  a  borrowing,  or  rather  a  theft,  from  him, 


i42         SOME  CURIOUS  VERSIONS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

certainly  bears  a  highly  curious  relation  to  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,'  from  which 
it  is  in  part  taken. 

That  Otway,  who,  at  his  best,  could  produce  the  finest  tragedies  of 
his  age,  should  stoop  to  commit  such  a  literary  crime  as  this  play  exhibits  — 
he  says  himself  that  he  has  'rifled  him  [Shakespeare]  of  half  a  plav '  — 
can  be  explained  only  as  due  to  the  exigency  of  his  pecuniary  affairs. 

The  quarrel  between  Marius  and  Sulla  doubtless  occurred  to  him  as 
a  suitable  subject  for  a  tragedy  and,  having,  as  usual,  to  write  for  bread, 
he  was  probably  anxious  to  have  his  play  ready  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment.  The  feud  between  the  houses  of  Montague  and  Capulet  being 
familiar  to  him,  he  evidently,  in  an  evil  moment,  conceived  the  idea  of 
transferring  its  incidents  to  the  enmity  between  the  partisans  of  Marius 
and  those  of  Sulla,  and  of  making  use  also  of  as  much  of  Shakespeare's 
dialogue  as  his  plan  permitted.  'To  such  low  shifts,  of  late,'  says  he,  by 
way  of  apology,  '  are  poets  worn.' 

In  treating  of  this  strange  hodgepodge  of  Shakespeare  and  Roman 
history,  I  shall  pay  attention  only  to  the  Shakespearean  portions,  as  being 
those  that  come  within  the  scope  of  my  subject.  As  to  the  character  of  the 
parts  of  the  play  which  are  Otway's  own,  no  more  need  be  said  than  that 
they  follow  fairly  closely  the  historical  facts. 

Caius  Marius  is  represented  as  having  a  son,  Marius  Junior,  who  is 
in  love  with  Lavinia,  daughter  of  Metellus.  The  last  is  a  partisan  of 
Sulla  and  wishes  his  chief  to  be  his  son-in-law.  This  device  affords  oppor- 
tunity to  introduce  several  scenes  and  many  passages  from  '  Romeo  and 
Juliet.'  The  greater  part  of  the  Nurse's  character  is  retained  and  Sulpitius 
uses  some  of  Mercutio's  speeches. 

The  First  Act  is  almost  all  Otway's.  A  mangled  form  of  the  descrip- 
tion of  Queen  Mab  is  spoken  by  Sulpitius.  In  the  Second  Act,  Metellus 
expresses  to  Lavinia  his  desire  that  she  should  be  married,  as  Lady  Capulet 
does  to  Juliet;  most  of  the  Nurse's  lines  appear,  but  in  prose,  and  Metellus 
speaks  some  of  Capulet's  lines  in  III.,  5,  of  '  Romeo  and  Juliet.'  Sulpitius 
conjures  for  Marius  Junior,  as  Mercutio  for  Romeo  in  Shakespeare,  and 
then  follows  the  garden  scene  between  Marius  Junior  and  Lavinia,  most  of 
the  lines  being  taken  from  Shakespeare.  The  Third  Act  includes  con- 
siderable of  '  Romeo  and  Juliet ' :  Lavinia's  nurse  comes  to  young  Marius 
and  is  quizzed  by  Sulpitius;  Lavinia  speaks  Juliet's  soliloquy  in  III.,   2; 


FREDERICK  W.  KILBOURNE  143 

and  then  cames  a  scene  between  her  and  the  Nurse,  somewhat  as  in  Shake- 
speare's II.,  5.  In  the  Fourth  Act  about  twenty  lines  of  Shakespeare's  III., 
5  are  introduced  in  the  parting  scene  between  Marius  Junior  and  Lavinia, 
the  Priest  of  Hymen  gives  her  a  sleeping  potion,  she  speaks  some  lines  from 
IV.,  I,  and,  after  the  priest  goes  out,  Juliet's  soliloquy  in  IV.,  3.  Shake- 
speare is  again  laid  under  a  heavy  contribution  in  Otway's  last  act.  The 
Nurse  discovers  Lavinia  apparently  dead,  Marius  Junior  hears  of  her  death, 
soliloquizes  as  in  Shakespeare,  and  buys  poison  of  an  apothecary.  At  the 
tomb  young  Marius  kills  the  priest,  not  knowing  who  he  is,  and  drinks  the 
poison,  but  before  he  dies  Lavinia  awakes.  She  later  kills  herself,  and  the 
play  ends  with  some  lines,  partly  Mercutio's,  spoken  by  Sulpitius. 

From  this  brief  account  of  the  relation  of  Otway's  play  to  Shake- 
speare's it  will  be  seen  that  Otway  speaks  truly  when  he  declares  he  has 
pilfered  half  a  play.  He  makes  some  changes  in  the  passages  he  steals, 
in  the  way  of  abridgement,  and  to  some  of  the  scenes  he  follows  he  adds 
considerable  of  his  own. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  waste  any  time  or  words  upon  such  a  contempt- 
ible piece  of  thieving  as  this.  It  would  seem  as  if  Otway  might  have  found 
material  enough  for  a  play  without  resorting  to  such  an  expedient.  The 
only  redeeming  feature  of  it  all  is  that  he  had  sufficient  good  sense  not  to 
alter  greatly  what  he  stole,  but  this  scarcely  makes  his  sin  the  less. 

His  main  change,  the  restoration  of  Lavinia  to  consciousness  before 
Marius  Junior  dies,  is  pronounced  by  Genest  to  be  an  improvement,  and  this 
device  is  retained  in  Theophilus  Gibber's  version  and  in  Garrick's,  and  the 
revision  of  the  latter  by  Kemble.  Whether  it  heightens  the  pathos  of  the 
situation  or  not  is  a  debatable  question.  It  may  make  it  a  little  more 
tragic,  but  it  seems  almost  too  much  piling  on  of  agony  to  make  Romeo 
discover  that  he  has  poisoned  himself  unnecessarily. 


MR.     HOWELLS'     PHILOSOPHY 

AND  'THE  SON  OF  ROYAL 

LANGBRITH.' 

By  E.  S.  Chamberlayne 

MR.  HOWELLS  has  attained  the  distinction  which  some  few 
living  writers  in  each  generation  share  with  the  phenomena 
of  nature,  the  distinction  of  being  criticised,  even,  if  you 
will,  of  being  roundly  abused,  as  the  weather  is,  for  ex- 
ample, and  of  being,  at  the  same  time,  artistically  almost  as 
indispensable,  almost  as  much  taken  for  granted,  as  the 
weather  itself.  No  late  riser,  hurrying  to  his  office  after  a  bad  night,  is  of 
too  mean  a  spirit  to  fling  his  jibe  at  the  day's  excess  of  heat  or  cold  or  wet, 
and  to  feel  himself  somehow  made  more  righteous  by  so  doing.  And  in 
much  the  same  way  the  mean  spirited  thinkers  of  the  hour,  dyspeptic  from 
gorging  at  the  '  quick  lunch  '  counters  of  fiction,  turn  to  Mr.  Howells  with 
a  grumble  or  a  complaint  that  is,  in  its  essence,  merely  a  recognition  of  the 
position  he  has  attained.  For  Mr.  Howells  has  become  one  of  the  chief  ele- 
ments in  our  American  literary  weather.  One  may  say  at  once  that  one 
doesn't  like  the  climate  —  which  makes  it  obviously  open  to  one  to  move  — 
but  so  long  as  one  lives,  intellectually,  in  America  it  is  essential  to  a  certain 
very  desirable  quality  of  mind  that  one  accept  Mr.  Howells,  with  all  his  lim- 
itations, in  the  same  philosophical  spirit  in  which  one  meets  the  trifling  in- 
felicities of  our  peculiar  American  climate. 

And  in  recent  years  he  has  given  us  nothing  that  so  well  repays  a  critical 
acceptance  as  the  vision  of  himself  that  appears  in  his  latest  novel.  In  '  The 
Son  of  Royal  Langbrith,'  he  has  produced,  perhaps  without  intention,  a 
tragedy.  I  fancy,  indeed,  that  if  he  ever  wrote  what  was  tragic  in  the  ob- 
jective, dramatic  sense  it  would  be  more  or  less  despite  his  conscious  purpose. 
For  he  shrinks,  artistically,  from  frankly  grappling  with  problems  that  for 
the  ordinary  novelist  exercise  a  sort  of  fascination.  The  tragedies  of  life, 
for  Mr.  Howells,  one  very  well  knows,  are  far  more  subtle,  far  more  delicate 
things  than  such  crude  dramatic  expressions  of  life  as  fill  the  newspaper  and 
the  more  cheaply  popular  novel.  But  in  the  story  of  Dr.  Anther  he  has 
found  one  of  the  oldest  forms  of  popular  tragedy.  And  though  he  has 
treated  it,  of  necessity,  in  the  manner  peculiar  to  himself,  he  has  not  robbed 
it  of  its  essentially  tragic  elements. 

(  144) 


E.  S.  CHAMBERLAYNE  145 

It  may  be  Mr.  Hovvells's  misfortune  —  it  is  certainly  his  charm  —  that 
his  attitude  toward  life  is  rarely  quite  his  reader's  attitude,  is  perhaps  rarely 
the  attitude  of  his  countrymen,  of  his  contemporaries.  And  for  this,  how- 
ever roughly  it  may  occasionally  rub  his  sensibilities,  we  must  be  selfishly 
grateful.  For,  though  we  in  America  still  are,  and  may  always  be,  too 
immature,  in  a  literary  sense,  to  view  life  as  he  views  it,  we  are  far  from 
wishing  him  to  view  it  as  we  do.  It  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  to  agree 
with  Mr.  Howells  —  or,  so  far  as  that  goes,  of  course,  with  any  man  —  in 
order  thoroughly  to  like  him.  We  do  thoroughly  like  him,  and,  if  one  may 
venture  to  guess,  this  is  perhaps  just  because  we  so  little  agree  with  him. 

One  rarely  realizes  it,  one  perhaps  never  fully  appreciates  it,  and  yet 
in  a  sense  it  is  true,  that  the  chief  appeal  of  any  art  lies  less  in  its  technical 
excellence,  less  in  what  we  have  come  to  consider  its  objective  truth  or  beauty, 
than  in  a  kind  of  subtle  self-expression  of  the  artist.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  talk  —  most  of  it  very  idle  talk  —  about  the  technique  of  this  or  the  other 
school  of  expression.  Realism,  romanticism,  impressionism :  the  terms  cover 
a  deal  of  careless  thinking.  But,  in  effect,  what  we  call  style  or  manner  is 
no  more  than  the  dress  in  which  an  artist  arrays  himself.  And  dress,  how- 
ever expressive  of  self,  is  always  a  relative  thing.  We  don't  make  friends 
with  a  man's  clothes.  In  a  word,  there  is  in  every  work  of  art  something 
besides  beauty,  something  besides  truth.  There  is  in  it  always  an  artist. 
For  it  is  a  fact,  though  we  have  so  far  accepted  it  as  only  a  theory,  that 
landscape  painting  actually  may  be  the  expression  of  one's  emotions  in  the 
presence  of  nature.  And  Mr.  Henry  James,  I  believe,  has  somewhere  given 
us  the  corollary  of  this,  that  fiction  is  the  novelist's  impression  of  life.  The 
books  in  which  foreigners  record  their  impressions  of  a  country  are  always 
received  in  opposite  ways  by  the  two  classes  into  which  their  readers  are 
divided.  Those  who  are  ignorant  of  the  country  turn  to  the  writer  for  a 
knowledge  of  what  he  has  seen;  those  who  are  well  informed  turn  to  the 
things  he  has  seen  for  a  knowledge  of  the  writer. 

The  novelist,  of  course,  is  merely  a  traveler  who  gives  us  from  time  to 
time  his  impressions  of  the  world  through  which  he  is  passing.  And  when 
we  turn  to  any  well-liked  writer  —  as  we  turn  to  Mr.  Howells  in  his  recent 
novel  —  we  fancy  that  we  seek  some  expression  of  truth  or  beauty,  or  seek, 
it  may  be,  just  a  picture  of  life  itself.  But  in  reality  we  never  do  seek  these. 
Though  perhaps  unconsciously,  it  is  always  the  writer  that  we  seek,  always 
10 


146  MR.  HOWELLS'  PHILOSOPHY 

the  writer  alone  that  we  find.  If  there  is  truth  or  beauty  it  is  largely  the 
truth  or  beauty  of  the  artist's  mind,  the  truth  or  beauty  of  that  mystery  we 
call  personality.  We  know  Shakespeare's  heart  far  better  than  we  know 
the  life  men  lived  under  Elizabeth  of  England.  The  great  Russians  have 
revealed  themselves  far  more  clearly  than  they  have  revealed  the  manners 
of  their  countrymen.  We  know  the  mind  of  Balzac;  we  only  doubt  and 
question  now  his  picture  of  the  time  in  which  he  lived. 

And  this  is  true,  with  all  respect,  of  Mr.  Howells.  One  might  say 
of  him,  as  is  often  said  of  clever  women,  that  it  is  easy  to  disagree  with  him, 
but  impossible  not  to  like  him.  Some  of  us  disagreed  with  him  about  Silas 
Lapham,  and  many,  many  of  us,  I  fear,  disagreed  with  him  about  the 
daughters  of  that  ill-fated  paint  merchant.  We  should  like  to  be  able  now, 
some  of  us,  to  look  forward  a  few  years  to  the  time  when  Lapham's  grand- 
daughters, fresh  from  college  and  a  year  abroad,  should  settle  down  in  one 
of  Boston's  '  younger  sets.'  Lapham  was  so  typically  an  American  of  the 
better  sort  that  we  take  it  a  little  hard  he  should  not  still  stand  for  us  in  his 
representative  capacity,  as  so  related  to  one  of  these  '  younger  sets.'  But 
we  do  not  take  it  hard  that  Mr.  Howells  in  this  earlier  work  has  given  us 
so  clear  a  vision  of  his  literary  personality.  America  can  very  well  endure 
the  loss  of  the  finest  product  of  Lapham's  million,  the  modern  American 
girl  —  we  have  her,  as  it  is,  in  such  abundance  —  but  the  America  of  today, 
and  more,  one  fancies,  the  America  of  tomorrow,  could  ill  endure  the  loss 
to  its  letters  of  this  expression  of  the  strong,  kind,  sane  spirit  we  all  admire. 

And  some  of  us  again,  I  fear,  as  we  finish  the  tragic  story  of  Dr.  Anther 
in  this  later  novel,  will  feel  constrained  to  disagree  with  Mr.  Howells  about 
that  admirable  old  New  England  village  doctor.  We  want  to  feel  that  life 
would  have  treated  him  more  kindly  than  Mr.  Howells  has  treated  him. 
We  want  to  make  ourselves  believe  that  he  would  have  had  something  finer 
than  the  peace  of  acquiescence  to  fill  his  final  hours  when  fate  denied  his 
love.  We  would  have  had  him  suffer.  Surely  the  love  of  so  fine  a  nature 
as  his  was  worthy  a  little  suffering.  He  was  to  die,  it  seems,  in  any  event, 
and  end  it  all.  Peace  was  so  poor  a  thing  to  give  him.  He  deserved  better 
of  life  than  that. 

And  yet,  in  this  novel  we  have  Mr.  Howells  as  we  perhaps  have  not  so 
fully,  have  not  so  clearly  had  him  in  any  work  since  he  revealed  the  breadth 
and  tolerance  of  his  mind  in  '  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham.'     And,  in  truth, 


E.  S.  CHAMBERLAYNE  147 

it  is  constantly  with  his  literary  personality  as  here  revealed,  and  not  with  the 
pictured  life  of  this  small  New  England  village,  that  we  find  ourselves  most 
concerned.  His  picture  of  village  life  interests  us,  the  ethical  problem  he 
discusses  through  his  characters  is  always  an  attractive  one,  the  somewhat 
prosaic  love  affair  of  Dr.  Anther  compels  a  measure  of  acceptance  which 
Mr.  Howells's  more  prosaic  love  affairs  have  not  always  done.  But  in  the 
end  the  chief  interest  and  certainly  the  lasting  value  of  the  work  will  be 
found  in  its  self-revelation  of  the  author. 

The  middle-aged  doctor  in  '  The  Son  of  Royal  Langbrith  '  loves  a 
widow  who  lacks  the  courage  to  tell  her  son  that  his  father  was  a  scoundrel, 
and  so  to  win  for  herself  the  young  man's  sanction  for  the  second  marriage 
that,  as  it  is,  the  boy's  ignorant  worship  of  his  father's  memory  would  make 
a  sacrilege.  The  ostensible  problem  of  the  tale  is  the  ethical  question 
whether  the  truth  should  be  told  about  the  man  who  is  believed  in  the 
village  to  have  been  a  worthy  character,  the  question  whether,  from  largely 
selfish  motives,  one  should  ever  set  in  motion  moral  forces  that  might  prove, 
however  slightly  or  subtly,  of  evil  effect.  The  problem  is  treated  as  only- 
Mr.  Howells  could  treat  it,  and  Dr.  Anther's  conclusion  that  he  is  not  justi- 
fied in  bending  the  weak  will  of  the  woman  he  loves  to  compass  the  end  they 
both  desire  becomes,  with  some  reservations,  the  reader's  own. 

The  ethical  problem  is  satisfactorily  solved;  but  there  appears  to  be 
still  a  question  unanswered.  And  it  is  in  the  answer  to  this  question  that 
one  finds  the  heart  of  Mr.  Howells's  philosophy.  Dr.  Anther  is  the  hero 
of  the  novel.  The  widow's  son,  with  his  blind  worship  of  his  unworthy 
lather,  is  merely  one  of  the  implements  fate  has  used  to  thwart  the  Doctor's 
love.  The  real  problem  seems  only  to  be  fairly  stated  when  this  first  and 
superficial  question  has  been  settled.  For  the  real  problem,  the  question 
toward  which  the  current  of  the  story  has  been  setting  from  the  first,  is  the 
old,  old  question  of  the  human  will  in  its  relation  to  destiny.  What  shall 
be  a  man's  attitude  toward  the  Power  that  thwarts  his  will?  Anther  is  not 
a  great  personage.  There  is  no  glitter  and  tinsel  about  him,  very  little  even 
of  cleverness  and  worldly  knowledge  in  his  composition;  though  Mr.  How- 
ells has  seen  in  him  a  slightly  clearer,  more  refined  intelligence  than  Lapham 
required  for  his  career.  But  the  world-old  tragedy  is  as  truly  stated  in  this 
prosaic,  middle-aged  man  with  his  love  for  a  weak  and  simple  woman  as  in 
any  dramatic  philosopher  or  poet  of  the  past.     For  none  of  the  vital  thing* 


148  MR.  HOWELLS'  PHILOSOPHY 

of  life  is  primarily  a  matter  of  expression.  No  man,  were  he  poet  or  clown, 
ever  found  speech  that  would  rightly  express  his  love;  and  the  tragedy  of 
life  is  as  real  in  the  private  of  the  Guard,  crushed  and  dying  in  the  ditch,  as 
in  the  emperor,  riding  off  into  the  night  with  the  bitterness  of  Waterloo  upon 
his  heart.  Men  of  duller  vision  have  rebuked  Mr.  Howells  for  not  giving 
his  problems  a  broader,  more  vivid  statement;  as  though  love  and  life,  pur- 
pose and  failure  and  death  were  matters  of  mere  expression  and  somehow 
lost  their  essence  when  not  stated  in  courtly  phrases. 

It  is  not,  however,  the  particular  expression  he  has  here  chosen  that  so 
arrests  attention.  The  life  he  pictures  is  much  like  that  of  his  other  novels. 
The  New  England  villagers  and  the  young  Harvard  men  seem  as  true,  as 
like  to  life,  as  thoroughly  natural,  in  a  word,  as  any  of  the  long  line  of  those 
that  have  come  before  them.  There  is  even  discernible  in  the  impalpable 
medium  in  which  they  move  a  kind  of  scent  —  one  would  not  like  to  call  it 
a  fragrance  —  as  though  the  moral  essence  of  long  generations  of  Puritan 
consciences,  slowly  drying  and  hardening,  had  permeated  the  atmosphere, 
as  in  some  localities  one  detects,  faint  and  delicate  and  by  no  means  disa- 
greeable, the  distant  suggestion  of  dried  and  salted  cod.  The  casual  reader 
may  esteem  the  Doctor's  love  story  but  slightly;  and,  indeed,  if  the  casual 
reader  be  young  —  as  she  is  likely  to  be  —  she  may  even  fancy  that  the  un- 
disciplined Harvard  student,  with  his  own  little  love  affair,  is  the  center  of 
interest.  But  the  story  is  the  story  of  Dr.  Anther;  and  we  follow  with 
appreciation  the  vision  of  his  struggle,  as  he  gropes,  dumb  and  blind,  amid 
the  shadows  of  desire  —  as,  in  degree,  we  all  must  do  —  until  he  wins  his 
way  to  the  one  right  course  that  fate  has  allotted  him.  And  yet,  there  is  in 
the  novel  something  more  engrossing  than  even  this  view  of  Anther's 
tragedy.  It  is,  in  a  word,  just  the  expression,  in  this  new  form,  of  the  view 
that  Mr.  Howells  takes,  artistically,  of  all  that  is  tragic. 

Perhaps  a  man's  personality  never  anywhere  gets  quite  so  clear  a  state- 
ment as  in  his  attitude  toward  the  tragedy  of  life.  We  have  all  smiled 
fondly  over  the  pages  of  Victor  Hugo.  That  delightful  soul  meets  the 
tragic  with  a  Gallic  zest  and  lightness  that  somehow  are  always  suggestive 
of  Hotspur  killing  his  seven  men  before  breakfast  and  coming  in  to  complain 
to  his  wife  that  life  is  dull.  Victor  Hugo  turns  to  the  tragic  as  some  men 
turn  to  play  or  to  high  finance,  for  the  very  joy  of  the  game.  Hawthorne, 
on  the  other  hand,  one  might  fancy,  sought  the  tragedy  of  life  because, 


E.  S.  CHAMBERLAYNE  149 

dreaming,  moody,  long  shut  unnaturally  within  himself,  only  the  tragic 
in  life  could  furnish  objective  forms  for  the  shadows  that  had  gathered  in 
the  disused  chambers  of  his  soul.  Mr.  Howells  turns  to  the  tragic,  if  at 
all,  as  in  this  recent  novel,  with  an  air  of  reluctance,  as  though  under  com- 
pulsion of  his  exacting  literary  conscience.  But  he  meets  it,  when  found, 
with  a  philosophy  as  far  removed  from  the  self-centered  gloom  of  his  coun- 
tryman as  it  is  from  the  impersonal,  almost  sprightly  gloom  of  the  great 
Frenchman.  In  fact,  artistically,  there  is  for  Mr.  Howells  practically  no 
gloom  in  life.  He  has  been  touched  by  the  serenity  and  tolerance  of  age. 
He  has  come  into  the  secret  of  content.  Life,  for  him,  holds  tragedies,  of 
course;  but  they  are  so,  one  sees,  only  because  men  fail  of  the  right  view  of 
life.  For  what  is  bitterness  in  them  may  be  transmuted  into  serenity  and 
peace,  into  even  joy  and  happiness  of  a  kind,  if  one  but  has  this  secret.  And 
in  '  The  Son  of  Royal  Langbrith '  Dr.  Anther  has  the  ill  fortune  to  receive 
this  secret  from  Mr.  Howells. 

Dr.  Anther,  in  a  word,  wins  peace,  not  as  we  all  may  in  the  kind  em- 
brace of  Time,  which  gave  us  birth,  but  at  once  —  on  the  spot,  as  one  may 
say  —  by  the  simple  expedient  of  abandoning,  not  alone  the  woman  he  loves, 
but  his  love  as  well.  His  sudden  tranquillity  comes  to  one  with  the  effect  of 
a  shock.  And  if,  in  the  end,  the  atmosphere  of  the  story  is  one  of  gloom, 
it  is  an  atmosphere  born  less  of  the  Doctor's  death  than  of  the  deeper  tragedy 
of  the  death  of  his  love.  For  his  love  dies  with  the  birth  of  his  peace;  he 
may  not  realize  it,  it  is  open  to  question  whether  Mr.  Howells  realized  it, 
but  it  dies  as  surely,  almost  as  dramatically,  as  the  Doctor  himself  does. 

For  it  is  not  in  love  to  abandon  its  object  without  suffering.  Peace 
comes  with  time,  not  with  renunciation.  To  love,  in  such  a  case  as  this,  is 
inevitably  to  suffer.  And  what,  indeed,  one  asks,  is  suffering,  what  unen- 
durable thing  is  it,  that  it  should  be  escaped  at  such  a  cost?  After  all,  love 
is  the  stuff  that  life  is  made  of.  Philosophy  and  the  calm  serenity  of  age  are 
doubtless  well  in  their  way;  but  their  way  is  not  the  way  of  youth.  And 
youth,  as  it  happens,  is  the  abiding  element  of  life.  The  world  never  grows 
old.  Men  are  always  at  the  beginning.  Through  the  ages  they  have  been 
pushing  their  slow  way  into  the  shadows  of  the  Unknown.  The  way  looks 
long  in  the  retrospect.  But  the  Mystery  they  search  is  boundless,  and  they 
stand  today  where  they  stood  yesterday,  where  they  will  stand  tomorrow, 
where,  in  effect,  they  will  always  stand,  at  the  threshold  of  life.      It  is  idle 


150  MR.  HOWELLS'  PHILOSOPHY 

for  age  to  tell  them  it  has  found  the  way  of  peace,  has  discovered  an  escape 
from  suffering.  Who  wishes  to  escape?  Not  youth,  surely.  Not  love. 
What  does  youth  reck,  of  suffering?  And  love  —  love  is  not  love  without 
suffering.  There  are  many  finer  things  in  life  than  peace.  Oh,  if  one 
comes  to  that,  there  are  many  finer  things  in  life  than  the  wisdom  and  seren- 
ity of  age.  There  are,  for  example,  the  blunders  and  the  follies  of  youth, 
the  blind  struggles  of  ignorance  and  weakness,  the  inevitable  failure  of  the 
dreams  of  love  and  their  eternal  rebirth.  These  things  are  finer,  for  it  is 
upon  these  that  the  structure  of  human  life,  like  the  ocean  coral,  is  slowly 
reared. 

It  is  the  failing  of  common  men  to  view  life  only  in  its  relation  to  them- 
selves; they  fail  to  see  life  whole  and  themselves  as  only  factors.  The 
child  wonders  for  what  purpose  curious  bugs  and  insects  are  created.  And 
men  look  upon  trees  and  plants  and  animals  only  as  ministering  in  some  way 
to  themselves.  It  never  occurs  to  them  that  an  oak,  for  instance,  or  a  toy 
spaniel,  may  exist  primarily  for  itself.  It  is  only  the  artist  who  sees  all  life 
as  so  existing;  for  it  is  only  beauty  that  translates  these  alien  forms  of  being 
into  terms  that  men  can  comprehend.  Science  and  philosophy  fail  in  this, 
for  they  are  bounded  by  reason ;  and  the  mystery  of  the  spirit  that  is  in  all 
life  is  never  revealed  to  the  mind  alone.  No  mere  intellectual  effort  will 
ever  bring  us  into  the  heart  of  another  personality.  Love  will  do  it  for  the 
individual ;  and  art,  closer  always  to  love  than  to  philosophy,  will  do  it  for 
the  race.  Men  of  a  certain  temper  view  woman  as  always  something  rela- 
tive to  man ;  they  see  her  as  the  loved  mistress  or  as  wife  and  mother,  but  in 
all  other  ways  they  see  her  as  only  a  kind  of  inferior  man.  But  the  true  lit- 
erary artist  never  compares  her;  he  lets  her  stand  alone  and  be  herself.  He 
shows  to  cruder,  duller  minds  the  vision  of  her  beauty;  and  common  men, 
touched  by  this  vision,  may  know  her,  if  they  will,  as  she  is. 

It  is  the  same  with  many  of  the  common  things  of  life;  they  lie  so  close 
about  us  that  we  never  think  of  looking  at  them  as  other  than  related  to  our- 
selves. We  see  the  life  of  the  average  person  in  terms  of  the  life  we  live, 
or  of  the  life  we  aspire  to  live,  and  so  turn  from  it.  And  when  an  artist 
with  so  fine  a  feeling  as  Mr.  Howells  takes  these  seemingly  inferior  forms 
of  life  and  reveals  their  essential  truth  and  beauty,  he  does  us  a  service  that 
we  cannot  appreciate  too  highly.  For  art,  after  all,  is  far  more  true,  far 
more  enduring,  than  any  philosophy  of  life. 


E.  S.  CHAMBERLAYNE  151 

In  fact,  though  Mr.  Howells's  philosophy  is  so  sane  and  kind  and  sure 
an  element  in  his  work,  it  is  his  artistic  vision  that  makes  the  stronger  appeal. 
We  see  this  in  the  conclusion  of  the  present  story.  Mrs.  Langbrith,  as  he 
sees  her,  is  perhaps  as  weak  a  woman  as  any  he  has  shown  us,  just  as  Dr. 
Anther  is  one  of  his  finest,  strongest  men.  But  Mr.  Howells  whispers  no 
philosophical  secret  to  the  woman  in  her  distress;  he  leaves  her  to  life  and 
to  her  woman's  nature.  And  these  deal  with  her  far  more  kindly,  leave  her 
more  consistent  with  herself,  leave  her,  in  a  word,  by  her  very  suffering  and 
grief,  closer  to  the  reader's  sympathies  than  her  lover's  dearly  bought  tran- 
quillity leaves  him.  She  has  been  weak,  throughout  the  story,  where  he  is 
strong,  weak  in  will,  weak  perhaps  in  mind;  but  in  the  end  she  shows  some 
evidence  of  the  woman's  strength  that  has  been  latent  in  her,  shows  at  least 
the  woman's  power  to  love  and  to  suffer.  And  the  reader  knows  that  this, 
however  crude  her  expression  of  it,  is  as  fine  a  thing  as  the  man's  strength  he 
has  been  earlier  asked  to  view. 

It  is  easy  to  say  that  Mr.  Howells  would  make  a  deeper  appeal  if  his 
artistic  vision  of  life  were  less  obscured  by  the  rosy  clouds  of  his  philosophy. 
But  that  is  merely  saying  that  if  he  were  not  Mr.  Howells  he  would  ob- 
viously be  someone  else.  And,  in  truth,  we  do  not  want  him  other  than  he 
is.  The  American  climate  has  various  admittable  infelicities,  but  on  the 
whole  it  suits  the  American  temper.  And  more  than  that,  it  bears  its  part  — 
perhaps  no  small  one  —  in  forming  this  temper,  of  which  in  a  modest  way 
we  sometimes  boast.  We  grumble  about  our  climate  now  and  then,  but  our 
fault  finding  is  itself  of  the  whimsical  American  kind  which  only  foreigners 
ever  make  the  blunder  of  taking  seriously.  It  is,  after  all,  our  climate  and 
no  one's  else ;  we  may  say  of  it  what  we  will.  But  let  no  alien  raise  a  voice 
against  it.  It  must  not  be  touched  with  ungentle  hand;  it  is  something 
essentially  American  and  therefore  not  to  be  profaned.  And  so  the  younger 
generation  makes  rather  free  with  Mr.  Howells,  as  the  way  of  younger 
generations  mostly  is.  They  recognize  certain  infelicities  in  his  work;  but 
he,  too,  suits  their  temper,  else  he  could  not  have  had  so  large,  though  of 
course  so  unacknowledged,  a  share  in  forming  it.  But  let  no  man  who  is 
not,  artistically,  his  countryman  raise  a  voice  against  him.  He  is  not  to  be 
profaned  by  alien  touch.  He  is  ours  and  no  one's  else.  For  he,  too,  in 
what  is  faulty,  as  in  what  is  finest,  truest,  best,  is  essentially  American. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


THE  PLAY  given  in  this 
number  of  Poet  Lore  by 
that  remarkable  new  Rus- 
sian, Maxim  Gorki,  is  his 
latest  dramatic  production, 
and  is  given  here,  so  far  as 
we  can  ascertain,  for  the  first  time  in 
English.  It  follows  upon  the  play  of 
slum  life,  known  to  some  of  our  readers, 
doubtless,  through  the  German  version, 
called  '  Nachtasyl.'  (For  an  exhaustive 
critique  of  this  new  writer,  see  the  article 
on  him  in  Poet  Lore,  Autumn  number, 
1904.)  This  current  piece  is  an  illus- 
tration of  quite  another  phase  of  Russian 
life,  among  the  class  calling  itself  the 
'  Intellectuals,'  and  it  portrays  this  class 
in  the  haunt  it  loves,  the  summer  cottages 
of  the  forest  country  surrounding  St. 
Petersburg. 

The  piece  well  exemplifies  the  singu- 
larity of  Gorki's  art  and  the  characteris- 
tically serious  purpose  animating  it. 

Judged  by  the  usual  dramatic  stand- 
ards as  to  plot,  construction,  and  move- 
ment, this  piece  would  be  sentenced  at  a 
first  glance  as  desperately  chaotic.  It 
may  also  be  observed,  however,  that  it 
does  not  profess  to  be  a  Drama,'  but 
merely  '  Scenes.'  And  these  '  Scenes  ' 
exhibit  characters  and  dialogue  of  an  ex- 
traordinarily present-moment  quality,  re- 
alistic to  the  utmost  degree  of  the  de- 
sultory and   just-as-it-comes  variety. 

With  all  its  longwinded,  irrelevant 
caprice  of  talk,  its  fitfulness  in  the  '  rela- 
tioning  '  of  groups  and  persons,  and  the 
fragmentariness  of  what  coherence  there 
is  among  them  toward  any  unified  out- 
come, the  play,  as  a  whole,  amounts  to 
an  exposition  of  Russian  social  frivolity 
in  the  class  called  in  England  the  '  upper 
middle  '  class.  It  is  an  exposition  made 
by   a   faithful   and   patriotic,   although   a 


keenly  cynical  literary  artist,  who  probes 
to  heal. 

Despite  the  eccentric  method,  gradu- 
ally the  reader  catches  the  artistic  and 
ethical  clew  to  this  dramatic  labyrinth. 
This  play  without  method  has  yet  a 
method  in  its  lack  of  method.  This  play 
without  design  has  this  design  —  drift. 
It  is  the  drift  of  discontented  idlers, 
restlessly  amusing  themselves  on  the 
brink  of  social  revolution.  Some  two  or 
three  of  them  are  half  aware  of  the  evil 
day  ahead  and  the  ill-spent  days  now 
passing.  All  of  them  are  more  or  less  un- 
consciously affected  by  a  lurking  suspicion 
of  their  own  superficialness,  and  these 
clever  and  susceptible  but  materially- 
minded  '  Summer-folk,'  cultivating  their 
leisurely  pleasures  so  epicureanly  in  fair 
weather,  and  so  readily  clashed  into  ridi- 
culous and  contemptible  discord  at  the 
first  rough  thrust  breaking  in  upon  the 
smooth  surface  of  their  days,  are  so  to 
the  life  shown  to  us  that  we  are  inclined 
to  sum  them  up  unfeelingly,  at  the  end, 
as  Shalimoff  is  made  to  sum  them  up  in 
the  closing  sentence  of  these  '  Scenes ' 
from  Russian  life.  Then  we  realize  the 
grim  pathos  implied,  and  that  Gorki  has 
most  skilfully  led  us  to  think  of  them 
as  a  swarm  of  drifting  summer  flies  be- 
ginning to  buzz  prodigiously  with  appre- 
hension because  they  are  destined  to  be 
swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth  at  the 
approach  of  serious  winter-weather  life  in 
Russia,  and  to  be  succeeded  by  the 
stronger  people  of  a  new  Russia. 

The  strange  piece  is  not  without  its 
significance  as  reflected  upon  somewhat 
similar  conditions  of  socially-selfish  life 
in  this  and  other  countries. 


Browning's  '  Blot  on  the  Scutcheon,' 
when  put  on  the  stage,  has  a  straightfor- 


(152) 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i53 


ward  power  to  move  the  heart.  Its  emo- 
tions are  as  pure  and  simple  as  any  pre- 
sented by  Heme  in  his  plays  of  American 
domestic  life,  such,  for  example,  as  '  Grif- 
fith Davenport.'  Beside  Browning's 
play  the  sophisticated  passions  of  most 
other  modern  stage  pieces  appear  elabo- 
rately conscious  and  grown  up.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  unashamed  directness  of 
Shakespeare's  Ferdinand  and  Miranda, 
whose  '  fire  i'  th'  blood  '  is  openly  curbed 
by  Prospero's  wisdom  and  magic,  seem 
primitive  and  far  away. 

Shakespeare's  lovers  are,  indeed,  re- 
lated to  Browning's  in  the  simple  direct- 
ness of  youthful  love,  but  they  live  on  an 
enchanted  isle,  girdled  about  with  the 
fair  unrealities  of  fancy;  while  Brown- 
ing's live  in  England,  the  formal,  stately, 
substantial  England  of  the  eighteenth 
century. 

The  wooing  of  Richard  Feverel  and 
Lucy  is  comparable  in  its  morning  quality 
to  the  love  surprising  Mertoun  and  Mil- 
dred. And  the  conflict  of  the  later  hap- 
piness of  Meredith's  youthful  pair  with 
the  insidious  rigidities  of  English  social 
custom,  although  in  detail  so  different,  is 
not  unlike  the  conflict  of  the  future  mar- 
ried happiness  of  Mildred  with  the  social 
codes  of  honor  armed  against  her  in 
the  ideals  of  her  brother,  whose  whole 
life  has  been  devoted  to  holding  up  the 
head  of  his  family.  He  holds  it  up  with 
so  supreme  a  pose  that  it  is  bound  to 
draw  down  upon  it  at  some  time  unruly 
Nature's  tragic  laughter.  The  time  ar- 
rives and  makes  the  drama  of  the  '  Blot.' 

The  complexity  of  Browning's  play 
comes  in,  thus,  through  the  social  situa- 
tion which  shapes  the  tragic  climax. 
Criticism  of  that  climax  as  unnecessary 
is  likely  to  be  due  to  a  failure  to  under- 
stand that  the  antithesis  is  designedly 
and  realistically  drawn  between  the  pure 
simplicity  of  human  nature  in  the  lovers 


and  the  complexity  of  social  nature  em- 
bodied in  Tresham.  He  is  the  flower 
of  a  consummate  social  perfection,  en- 
tirely true  as  an  ideal  both  to  his  time 
and  character. 

The  falsity  in  its  application,  when  it 
condemns  his  sister  and  blights  her 
future,  he  is  certainly  intelligent  enough 
to  detect  as  soon  as  he  learns  from  Mer- 
toun's  lips  that  he,  the  suitor,  is  the  clan- 
destine lover.  Yet  this  enlightening 
word,  which  might  have  averted  his 
sword  and  spoiled  the  tragedy,  is  just 
what  turns  the  rage  of  Tresham's  right- 
eousness from  Mildred  upon  Mertoun, 
and  causes  him  to  let  fall  the  stroke  that 
makes  the  tragedy. 

The  Poet  is  unerring  in  precipitating 
the  fatality  then,  because  the  obscure 
pressure  of  the  ages,  and  the  secret  com- 
pulsion of  race,  are  necessarily  before- 
hand with  reason  at  such  a  moment  and 
prompt  in  the  blood.  And  also,  because 
all  the  reason  and  character  in  Tresham 
have  until  then  been  loyally  applied  to- 
ward making  him  the  liege  creature,  the 
professed  standard-bearer  of  the  be- 
queathed family  pride,  whose  momentum 
alone  would  drive  him  its  own  way  for 
a  time,  although  he  were  to  see  clear,  as 
he  does,  by  the  lightning  stroke  of  his 
own  action,  an  instant  later. 
*     *     * 

In  the  production  of  '  The  Blot,'  by 
Mrs.  Sarah  Cowell  Lemoyne  last  spring, 
opening  in  New  York  April  7th,  at  the 
Hudson  Theatre,  in  Boston  May  15th, 
at  the  Park  Theatre,  the  simpler  aspects 
of  the  play  were  irresistible  in  their  effect 
upon  the  appreciation  of  the  audience. 
The  complexer  aspects,  dependent  upon 
what  may  be  called  the  social  atmosphere, 
and  demanding  a  high  degree  of  artistic 
excellence  in  the  conception  and  of  finish 
in  the  acting,  were  not  so  satisfactorily 
rendered.     The    Tresham    of    Mr.    W. 


154 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


Beach  succeeded  in  expressing  the  simpler 
touches  of  brotherly  tenderness,  and  also 
the  more  external  truths  of  the  demeanor 
required  for  the  interplay  with  the  old 
retainer,  Gerard,  a  character  part  acted 
to  perfection  by  Mr.  Theo  Hamilton. 
The  heroics,  too,  of  the  passage  at  arms 
with  Mertoun  in  the  great  scene  under 
Mildred's  window,  were  extremely  effec- 
tive. He  was  decidedly  unsuccessful  in 
portraying  the  stately  habits  of  idealism  be- 
longing to  the  character  and  the  social 
atmosphere.  These  habits  of  idealism 
are  dramatically  important,  almost  essen- 
tial, in  this  play,  since  they  do  not  belong 
merely  to  external  etiquette  and  deport- 
ment, valuable  as  they  are  pictorially 
there  also.  They  have  sunk  deep.  They 
have  become  religious  in  Tresham's 
breast,  building  up  within  him  the  master- 
motive  and  infatuation  on  which  the 
tragic  situation   rests. 

T&  ifc  7jt 

Browning's  characters  are  not  apt  to 
be  '  in  the  air.'  They  usually  belong  to 
an  ascertainable  social  environment.  His- 
torical study  may  well  be  spent  upon 
them.  And  this  is  one  of  the  things 
which  make  it  so  interesting  and  so  diffi- 
cult to  do  them  justice,  and  which  also 
make  it  so  well  worth  while.  The 
human  nature  and  life  in  them  are  doubly 
real  in  being  true  to  each  single  char- 
acter and  to  the  social  atmosphere  and 
social  relations  in  which  they  move. 

The  scene  in  which  Mertoun  asks 
Tresham  for  his  sister's  hand  was  disap- 
pointing. The  characters  did  not  belong 
to  their  century,  and  their  pictorial  cos- 
tumes only  made  them  seem  the  more 
made-up  and  dressed  for  some  society 
masked  function.  The  historic  illusion 
the  plot  requires  was  not  satisfied. 

For  the  soliloquy  scene  under  the  oaks, 
too,  a  Tresham  organically  capable  of 
thinking  and  feeling  as  Tresham  thought 


and  felt  then,  is  peculiarly  requisite. 

These  were  the  least  perfectly  realized 
portions  of  scenes  in  many  other  respects 
admirably  filled. 

*     *     * 

Mildred's  nature  and  character 
seemed  almost  ideally  incarnate  in  Miss 
Grace  Elliston's  still  and  grave  ingenu- 
ousness. She  showed  in  her  personation 
just  the  last  and  ripest  phase  of  a  youth- 
fulness  still  mere  girlhood  while  border- 
ing on  the  mature,  and  a  character  pre- 
cociously intelligent,  but  quite  devoid  of 
the  external  sprightliness  and  buoyant 
shrewdness  so  generally  belonging,  for 
example,  to  modern  American  girlhood. 
The  English  type  imagined  by  Browning 
suits  just  this  well-rounded  statuesque- 
ness,  just  this  unslim  sort  of  maidenliness. 
And  his  inner  situation  requires  just  such 
a  highly  organized,  high-minded,  and 
sensitive,  yet  phlegmatic  and  docile  na- 
ture, to  make  us  see  why  she  was  so 
stunned,  so  hopeless  and  helpless  beneath 
the  threat  of  her  fate.  She  would  be 
naturally  slow  to  distrust  or  criticize 
conventional  ideals  of  life  and  honor  up- 
held by  a  loved  brother.  Even  a  younger 
Gwendolen  of  her  time,  much  more  a 
modern  American  girl,  would  be  likelier 
to  circumvent  or  control  them  instead  of 
enduring  them  as  Mildred  did.  But 
such  a  loyal,  slow-sure  heart  sees  wholly 
right  when  it  does  see.  And  when  the 
tragic  blow  falls,  it  finds,  through  the 
spiritual  illumination  of  its  own  steadfast 
love,  just  such  divine  words  as  Mildred's 
to  say  in  place  of  any  harsh  judgment  or 
resentment. 

Miss  Elliston's  beautiful  voice  and  re- 
pressed manner,  even  in  a  certain  effect 
of  teachableness  and  lack  of  independent 
vigor  which  they  occasionally  betrayed, 
were  almost  as  well  adjusted  as  her  per- 
son to  create  the  illusion  which  the  char- 
acter of  Mildred  requires. 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i55 


Her  selection  and  training  for  the  in- 
terpretation, so  well  given,  speak  highly 
for  Mrs.  Lemoyne's  cultured  judgment. 
So,  in  fact,  does  the  whole  play.  It  owed 
life  and  inspiration  to  her  management. 
No  hearer  could  fail  to  thank,  her  with 
enthusiasm  for  so  poetic  a  presentment 
of  a  charming  play.  Some  of  the  clumsy 
subterfuges  resorted  to  in  the  Barrett 
stage  version  must  have  rendered  it  more 
stagey  instead  of  more  stageable.  Mrs. 
Lemoyne's  version  will  have  proved  this, 
once  for  all.  No  succeeding  manager 
will  think  it  needful,  for  example,  to 
transfer  the  final  dialogue  between  Mil- 
dred and  Tresham  from  Mildred's  cham- 
ber, where  it  is  manifestly  suitable  it 
should  be,  to  the  park,  for  the  sake  of  in- 
ducing Mildred  to  guess  that  Tresham 
has  slain  Mertoun  from  seeing  her  lover's 
cloak  lying  on  the  grass,  instead  of  from 
feeling  it  in  her  brother's  manner  when 
he  comes  to  her,  and  proving  it  by  seeing 
his  empty  scabbard. 


Mrs.  Lemoyne's  own  fulfillment  of 
the  part  of  Gwendolen  was  not  so  ade- 
quate in  personal  presentment,  quality  of 
voice,  and  repose  of  manner  as  in  the 
vivacious  intelligence  of  shades  of  mean- 
ing in  her  reading,  and  in  her  beautiful 
costuming.  Perhaps  Gwendolen,  also, 
like  Mr.  Beach's  Tresham  and  Mr.  Al- 
baugh's  frank  and  boyish  Mertoun, 
needed  a  more  organic  grounding  on 
the  ease  of  well-bred  courtliness  de- 
noting the  historic  epoch  of  the  play. 
Although  incisively  and  unerringly  in- 
tuitional, Browning's  Gwendolen  is  one 
whose  intuitions  '  toy  with  the  bow,  yet 
hit  the  white.' 


'  Marlowe,'  as  played  at  the  opening 
cf  the  new  theatre  in  the  Elizabeth  Cary 


Agassiz  House  at  Radcliffe  College  at 
Cambridge,  June  19th  and  20th,  was  a 
rare  pleasure  to  witness.  The  title-role 
was  played  with  distinction  in  impersona- 
tion and  phrasing  by  Professor  George 
P.  Baker,  and  Mr.  Lyman's  versatile  pre- 
sentment of  the  tenderness  and  the  fierce 
malignity  required  by  the  moodiness  of 
the  man  who  was  Marlowe's  evil  genius, 
stood  out  in  high  relief. 

The  poetic  value  of  this  play,  since  it 
was  printed  a  year  or  two  ago,  has  be- 
come very  well  recognized.  No  stage 
presentation  was  needed  to  assure  us  of 
its  delicate  beauty,  or  even  of  the  fra- 
grance of  the  Elizabethan  age  enfolded 
in  the  conception  of  the  characters  and 
the  pleasant  fashioning  of  its  phrases. 
This  poetic  beauty  and  this  Elizabethan 
fragrance  constituted  an  essential  part  of 
the  unusual  pleasure  in  seeing  it  put  on 
the  stage.  The  unassuming  good  taste 
and  sufficiently  scholarly  care  exercised 
in  the  details  of  setting  and  properties 
further  marked  it  favorably  above  the 
few  attempts  made  on  the  professional 
stage  of  late  to  produce  any  modern  plays 
of  such  good  literary  quality.  For  when 
the  public  has  been  given  pieces  that  could 
lay  claim  to  being  poetic,  the  result  has 
been   pretentious   rather   than    finished. 

Still,  the  main  thing  about  Josephine 
Preston  Peabody's  '  Marlowe '  was 
neither  that  it  was  gracefully  acted  or 
well  produced,  nor  even  that  it  was 
charming  to  heed  and  behold,  but  that  it 
acted  well  and  held  the  interest  of  the 
audience. 

When  compared  in  dramatic  value,  as 
in  fairness  it  should  be,  with  plays  of 
its  own  poetic  class,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, by  virtue  of  its  stage  trial,  to 
stand  better  in  breadth  of  qualities  than 
Aldrich's  '  Judith  '  or  Phillips'  «  Ulysses,' 
for  it  adds  to  the  poetic  value  in  which  it 
is   akin    to   these  plays   a   firmer,   better- 


i56 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


balanced  stage  construction,  and  a  lighter 
sportive  vein,  showing  a  capacity  for 
humor.  The  fourth  act  of  the  play 
reached  its  highest  altitude ;  and  in  this 
act  the  supreme  moment  was  one  that 
summed  up  in  a  symbolic  incident  the 
character  of  Marlowe  and  his  relation 
with  Alysonn.  When  the  restless,  in- 
satiable Poet  would  quench  his  thirst,  he 
renounces  wine  and  will  take  from  the 
hand  of  his  adoring  '  little  Quietude ' 
nothing  but  '  a  cup  of  water.'  This  was, 
of  course,  an  essentially  poetic  touch, 
figurative  and  subtle,  but  it  was  a  poetry 
growing  so  directly  from  the  vital  situa- 
tion, and  this  backed  the  symbol  so  ob- 
viously that  it  became  a  moving  incident 
in  the  dramatic  sense.  It  was  felt,  if 
not  consciously  realized,  by  the  audience. 


*     * 


Russia's  condition  of  revolution  has 
caused  an  upheaval  which  affects  the 
world  in  art  as  well  as  in  political  signifi- 
cance. One  of  the  first  good  results  of 
this  anarchy  is  an  enforced  acquaintance 
with  Russian  literature,  music,  and  dra- 
matic art. 

The  past  spring  season  has  brought  a 
strange  company  of  actors  to  America, 
who  started  without  resources  and  with- 
out friends  in  the  foreign  lands  they  pro- 
posed to  visit.  Their  errand  was  qui- 
xotic: Mr.  Paul  Orleneff  proposed  to 
carry  all  over  the  world  a  play  called 
'  The  Chosen  People,'  which  sets  forth 
the  persecution  of  the  Jews  in  Russia.  It 
was  proscribed  by  the  censor.  This  play 
is  an  extraordinary  one,  covering  the 
whole  Jewish  question  and  finding  in  the 
characters  voices  for  Zionism,  for  amal- 
gamation, for  the  Hebrew  faith,  for  social 
democracy,  for  segregation,  as  the  case 
may  be.  This  discussion  is  dramatically 
interwoven  with  a  simple  story.  The 
scene  is  in  an  old  Jewish  watchmaker's 
home.      It   deals   with   the   old   man,   his 


son  and  daughter,  who  are  free-thinking 
university  students,  a  Gentile  who  wishes 
to  marry  the  girl,  an  ardent  Zionist,  his 
rival,  a  social  democrat,  and  a  prosperous 
Jewish  physician,  who  stands  for  worldly 
success.  It  is  a  remarkable  piece  of  work, 
both  because  of  its  art  and  of  the  art  with 
which  it  was  given.  Mr.  Paul  Orleneff, 
who  was  bidden  by  Maxim  Gorki 
to  carry  the  drama  abroad,  plays  the 
Zionist;  Madame  Alia  Nasimoff,  hailed 
during  a  short  season  in  London  as  a 
Russian  Duse,  plays  Lia,  the  Jewish  girl; 
and  a  company  of  thirteen,  under  the  ad- 
mirable training  of  Orleneff,  produced  a 
piece  of  consistent  art  in  which  their  per- 
sonalities count  for  the  parts  they  present. 
This  has  made  of  the  construction  of  the 
play  drawn  by  Tchirikoff  a  whole  of 
remarkable  texture.  The  technique  of 
Orleneff  as  stage  manager,  after  his  career 
of  twenty  years  in  Russia,  fuses  his  ma- 
terials into  a  single  expression.  There 
is  no  question  of  a  melodramatic  appeal 
to  the  audience.  The  '  fourth  wall  '  is 
there.  It  is  life,  simple  and  without  self- 
consciousness,  which  the  audience  may  see 
as  if  by  a  strange  chance.  The  American 
habit  of  theatricalism  is  absolutely  absent. 

In  addition  to  this  play  the  Orleneff 
company  has  given  five  others :  '  Crime 
and  Punishment '  and  '  Karamasoff 
Brothers'  by  Dostoievsky;  'Ghosts'  by 
Ibsen ;  '  Feodor  Ivanovitch  '  by  Count 
Alexis  Tolstoi;  'Misfortune'  by  Andro- 
vitch ;  and  '  Countess  Julie  '  by  August 
Strindberg.  The  latter  was  a  benefit  for 
Madame  Alia  Nasimoff,  a  beautiful, 
strange  little  Russian,  with  a  thrilling 
voice  and  a  mingled  method,  in  which  the 
'  repressed  '  is  colored  at  times  by  a  really 
great  emotional  outburst. 

Madame  Nasimoff  is  returning  from 
Russia  in  September  with  a  new  com- 
pany, costumes  which  she  has  procured  in 
Paris,  and  a  repertory  of  thirty-two  new 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS 


i57 


plays  by  both  the  Tolstois,  and  by  Gorki, 
Tchirikoff,  Andreeiv,  and  others.  The 
season  to  be  given  is  arranged  in  series. 
An  Ibsen  series  will  be  given,  presenting 
plays  not  yet  seen  in  America;  a  Maeter- 
linck series,  and  one  each  of  Gorki,  Tol- 
stoi, Dostoievsky,  Strindberg,  Haupt- 
mann,  Sudermann.  The  new  play  of 
Gorki,  written  in  prison,  '  The  Children 
of  the  Sun,'  will  be  produced  among  the 
novelties.  Another  will  be  the  '  Salome  ' 
of  Oscar  Wilde. 

A  little  theatre  in  East  Third  Street 
has  been  taken  and  is  to  be  remodeled. 
Its  patrons  include  many  names  among 
the  prominent  Russian  Jews.  After  the 
first  performance  of  '  The  Chosen  Peo- 
ple '  by  the  courtesy  of  Charles  Frohman 
at  the  Herald  Square  Theatre,  the  com- 
pany was  obliged  last  season  to  continue 
its  presentations  at  the  various  theatres 
on  the  Bowery,  to  which  many  American 
lovers  of  a  superb  dramatic  art  were  con- 
tent to  make  their  pilgrimages. 

F.  B. 


* 


French  appreciation  of  Shakespeare 
is  placed  earlier  than  that  of  any  other 
nation's  critics  by  Monsieur  Jusserand's 
citation  in  his  '  History  of  English  Lit- 
erature '  of  the  opinion  of  Nicholas  Clem- 
ent, librarian  to  Louis  XIV,  who  between 
1675  and  1684  catalogued  the  books  of 
his  master.  Louis  XIV  possessed  a  copy 
of  Shakespeare!  There  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  he  ever  opened  it.  But  his 
librarian  had  an  opinion  of  the  poet  which 
is  in  the  main  favorable.  '  This  English 
poet,'  he  writes,  'has  a  fine  imagination; 
his  descriptions  are  true  to  nature,  and  he 
expresses  himself  with  exquisite  precision; 
but  these  fine  qualities  are  marred  by  the 
rubbish  with  which  his  comedies  are  in- 
terlarded.'   This  criticism  was  never  pub- 


lished ;  it  proves  at  least  that  the  name  of 
Shakespeare  had  reached  France  at  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century.  It  was 
in  1694  that  Addison  made  his  list  of  the 
best  English  poets  without  including 
Shakespeare. 


A  love-letter  of  antiquity,  perhaps 
the  oldest  in  existence,  dated  by  its  erud- 
ite finders  as  belonging  to  220O  B.  C, 
has  been  discovered  in  Chaldea  recently, 
at  Sippara,  the  Sepharvoni  of  the  Bible. 
The  lady  lived  there,  her  correspondent 
in  Babylon,  and  he  writes  on  clay  to  her, 
hoping  she  may  come  to  him  in  the  month 
of   festivals,   called    Marchesvan : 

'  To  the  lady,  Kasbuya  [little  ewe] 
says  Gimil  Marduk  [the  favorite  of 
Merodach]  this:  May  the  sun  god  of 
Marduk  afford  you  eternal  life.  I  write 
wishing  that  I  may  know  how  your  health 
is.  Oh,  send  me  a  message  about  it.  I 
live  in  Babylon  and  have  not  seen  you, 
and  for  this  reason  I  am  very  anxious. 
Send  me  a  message  that  will  tell  me  when 
you  will  come  to  me,  so  that  I  may  be 
happy.  Come  in  Marchesvan.  May  you 
live  long  for  my  sake.' 


In  the  old  French  of  Benoit's  '  Roman 
de  Troie,'  F.  M.  Warren,  in  a  recent 
number  of  the  Modern  Language  Notes, 
asks  his  scientific  colleagues  if  they  can- 
not recognize  an  image  of  the  new-discov- 
ered  substance,   radium : 

'  Une  pierre  ot  enz  alumee 
Dont  il  n'ist  flambe  ne  fumee; 
Sanz  descroistre  art  et  nuit  et  jor; 
Granz  est  li  feus  de  sa  chalor.' 

—  w.  14825-14828. 


* 


* 


THE    PUBLISHER'S   DESK 


THE  edition  of  this  number 
of  Poet  Lore  is  the  largest 
ever  printed.  It  will  reach 
many  new  readers,  and  we 
hope  gain  many  new  friends; 
the  great  majority  of  Poet 
Lore's  old  subscribers  are  its  friends  as 
well.  Most  of  them  have  watched  it 
through  all  its  years  and  phases,  they 
have  seen  its  growth  and  gradual  ex- 
pansion and  are,  we  hope,  gratified  to 
see  the  magazine  as  it  is  today,  in  the 
perfect  flower  of  fulfilled  ideals. 


*     * 


* 


To  our  new  friends  we  would  explain 
a  little.  Unlike  the  majority  of  maga- 
zines, Poet  Lore  is  not  made  with  the  main 
eye  on  the  advertising  returns,  neither  is 
it  designed  for  the  great  general  public. 
Instead,  it  is  meant  for  those  few  who 
can  appreciate  a  magazine  which  is,  in  the 
highest  sense,  A  Magazine  of  Letters,  and 
which  for  sixteen  years  has  maintained 
an  editorial  standard  of  excellence  not 
even  attempted  by  any  other  American 
periodical.  In  an  age  characterized  as 
commercial,  and  in  a  country  where  the 
sign  of  the  dollar  is  the  crest  of  nobility, 
such  an  attitude  is,  in  itself,  an  achieve- 
ment. 

*     *     * 

This  number  is  a  fair  sample  of  what 
others  will  be,  although  it  will  be  our 
endeavor  to  continue  the  constant  im- 
provement hitherto  shown  in  the  maga- 
zine. If  you  are  interested  in  this  issue 
we  are  sure  you  will  be  in  future  num- 
bers and  we  shall  be  glad  to  receive  aM 
subscriptions  with  the  understanding  that 
the  full  price  will  be  refunded  to  any  dis- 


satisfied subscriber.     We  do  not  see  how 
it  is  possible  to  make  a  fairer  offer  than 

this. 

*  *     * 

It  is  entirely  contrary  to  our  custom 
to  distribute  free  samples,  but  if  you  have 
any  friends  whom  you  think  would  be 
interested  in  Poet  Lore,  we  shall  be  glad 
to  send  them  a  copy  with  our  compli- 
ments. It  seems  to  us  that  no  one  really 
interested  in  modern  letters  can  see  one 
copy  of  Poet  Lore  without  wishing  to  see 

it  regularly. 

*  *     * 

With  the  present  number  is  estab- 
lished a  new  department,  RECENT 
GERMAN  CRITICISM,  under  the 
direction  of  Professor  Paul  H.  Grum- 
mann  of  the  University  of  Nebraska.  A 
large  number  of  scholars  have  been  se- 
cured as  contributors,  and  considerable 
space  will  be  devoted  regularly  to  this 
work,  which  it  is  our  intention  to  render 
of  distinct  value  to  those  interested  in 
German  literature.  The  department  will 
cover  the  whole  field  of  German  litera- 
ture, although  special  attention  will  be 
devoted   to   recent  movements. 

*  *     * 

Every  reader  of  Poet  Lore  will  be  par- 
ticularly interested  in  one  of  our  new 
books  for  this  fall,  Alterations  and 
Adaptations  of  Shakespeare,  by  Frederick 
W.  Kilbourne,  Ph.D.  A  small  portion 
of  this  work  has  already  been  printed  in 
Poet  Lore  —  "  Some  Curious  Versions  of 
Shakespeare "  in  the  present  number 
being  one  of  the  articles  —  but  the  main 
part  of  the  work  is  now  published  for 
the  first  time.  It  is  a  book  that  no  lover 
or  student  of  Shakespeare  can  afford  to 
overlook. 


(I5«D 


jj A      000  236  643    3 


